UC-NRLF 


SOD 


Gnmr  ©IF 

Mrs.  Mildred  Clemens  Lewis 


K.  FOUGHT  HIS   BATTLE 


K 


BY 


MARY  ROBERTS  RINEHART 

AUTHOR   OF 

THE  STREET  OF  SEVEN  STARS,  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  YORK 

GROSSET   &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1914  AND   1915,  BY  THB  MCCLURE 

PUBLICATIONS,   INCORPORATED 
COPYRIGHT,  1915,  BY  MARY   ROBERTS  RINEHART 

ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  August  igty 


IOIST  THOUSAND 


GIFT 


CHAPTER   I 


THE  Street  stretched  away  north  and  south  in  two 
lines  of  ancient  houses  that  seemed  to  meet  in  the 
distance.  The  man  found  it  infinitely  inviting.  It 
had  the  well-worn  look  of  an  old  coat,  shabby  but 
comfortable.  The  thought  of  coming  there  to  live 
pleased  him.  Surely  here  would  be  peace  —  long 
evenings  in  which  to  read,  quiet  nights  in  which  to 
sleep  and  forget.  It  was  an  impression  of  home, 
really,  that  it  gave.  The  man  did  not  know  that, 
or  care  particularly.  He  had  been  wandering  about 
a  long  time-—  not  in  years,  for  he  was  less  than 
thirty.  But  it  seemed  a  very  long  time. 

At  the  little  house  no  one  had  seemed  to  think 
about  references.  He  could  have  given  one  or  two, 
of  a  sort.  He  had  gone  to  considerable  trouble  to  get 
them ;  and  now,  not  to  have  them  asked  for  — 

There  was  a  house  across  and  a  little  way  down 
the  Street,  with  a  card  in  the  window  that  said: 
"Meals,  twenty-five  cents."  Evidently  the  midday 
meal  was  over;  men  who  looked  like  clerks  and  small 
shopkeepers  were  hurrying  away.  The  Nottingham 

i 


curtains  were  pinned  back,  and  just  inside  the  win- 
dow a  throaty  barytone  was  singing: 

"Home  is  the  hunter,  home  from  the  hill: 
And  the  sailor,  home  from  sea." 

Across  the  Street,  the  man  smiled  grimly.  Home! 

For  perhaps  an  hour  Joe  Drummond  had  been 
wandering  up  and  down  the  Street.  His  straw  hat 
was  set  on  the  back  of  his  head,  for  the  evening  was 
warm;  his  slender  shoulders,  squared  and  resolute 
at  eight,  by  nine  had  taken  on  a  disconsolate  droop. 
Under  a  street  lamp  he  consulted  his  watch,  but 
even  without  that  he  knew  what  the  hour  was. 
Prayer  meeting  at  the  corner  church  was  over;  boys 
of  his  own  age  were  ranging  themselves  along  the 
curb,  waiting  for  the  girl  of  the  moment.  When  she 
came,  a  youth  would  appear  miraculously  beside 
her,  and  the  world-old  pairing  off  would  have  taken 
place. 

The  Street  emptied.  The  boy  wiped  the  warm 
band  of  his  hat  and  slapped  it  on  his  head  again. 
She  was  always  treating  him  like  this  —  keeping 
him  hanging  about,  and  then  coming  out,  perfectly 
calm  and  certain  that  he  would  still  be  waiting.  By 
George,  he'd  fool  her,  for  once:  he'd  go  away,  and 
let  her  worry.  She  would  worry.  She  hated  to  hurt 
any  one.  Ah ! 

Across  the  Street,  under  an  old  ailanthus  tree,  was 
the  house  he  watched,  a  small  brick,  with  shallow 
wooden  steps  and  —  curious  architecture  of  the 


Middle  West  sixties  —  a  wooden  cellar  door  beside 
the  steps. 

In  some  curious  way  it  preserved  an  air  of  distinc- 
tion among  its  more  pretentious  neighbors,  much 
as  a  very  old  lady  may  now  and  then  lend  tone  to 
a  smart  gathering.  On  either  side  of  it,  the  taller 
houses  had  an  appearance  of  protection  rather  than 
of  patronage.  It  was  a  matter  of  self-respect,  per- 
haps. No  windows  on  the  Street  were  so  spotlessly 
curtained,  no  doormat  so  accurately  placed,  no 
"yard  "  in  the  rear  so  tidy  with  morning-glory  vines 
over  the  whitewashed  fence. 

The  June  moon  had  risen,  sending  broken  shafts 
of  white  light  through  the  ailanthus  to  the  house 
door.  When  the  girl  came  at  last,  she  stepped  out 
into  a  world  of  soft  lights  and  wavering  shadows, 
fragrant  with  tree  blossoms  not  yet  overpowering, 
hushed  of  its  daylight  sounds  of  playing  children 
and  moving  traffic. 

The  house  had  been  warm.  Her  brown  hair  lay 
moist  on  her  forehead,  her  thin  white  dress  was 
turned  in  at  the  throat.  She  stood  on  the  steps,  the 
door  closed  behind  her,  and  threw  out  her  arms  in  a 
swift  gesture  to  the  cool  air.  The  moonlight  clothed 
her  as  with  a  garment.  From  across  the  Street  the 
boy  watched  her  with  adoring,  humble  eyes.  All 
his  courage  was  for  those  hours  when  he  was  not 
with  her. 

"Hello,  Joe." 

"Hello,  Sidney." 

3 


He  crossed  over,  emerging  out  of  the  shadows 
into  her  enveloping  radiance.  His  ardent  young 
eyes  worshiped  her  as  he  stood  on  the  pavement. 

"  I'm  late.  I  was  taking  out  bastings  for  mother. " 

"Oh,  that 'sail  right." 

Sidney  sat  down  on  the  doorstep,  and  the  boy 
dropped  at  her  feet. 

11 1  thought  of  going  to  prayer  meeting,  but  mother 
was  tired.  Was  Christine  there?" 

"Yes;  Palmer  Howe  took  her  home." 

He  was  at  his  ease  now.  He  had  discarded  his  hat, 
and  lay  back  on  his  elbows,  ostensibly  to  look  at  the 
moon.  Actually  his  brown  eyes  rested  on  the  face 
of  the  girl  above  him.  He  was  very  happy. 

"He's  crazy  about  Chris.  She's  good-looking, 
but  she's  not  my  sort." 

"Pray,  what  is  your  sort?" 

"You." 

She  laughed  softly.   "You're  a  goose,  Joe!" 

She  settled  herself  more  comfortably  on  the  door- 
step and  drew  a  long  breath. 

"How  tired  I  am!  Oh  —  I  haven't  told  you. 
We've  taken  a  roomer!" 

"A  what?" 

"A  roomer."  She  was  half  apologetic.  The  Street 
did  not  approve  of  roomers.  "  It  will  help  with  the 
rent.  It's  my  doing,  really.  Mother  is  scandalized.1' 

"A  woman?" 

"A  man." 

"What  sort  of  man?" 


"  How  do  I  know?  He  is  coming  to-night.  I  '11  tell 
you  in  a  week." 

Joe  was  sitting  bolt  upright  now,  a  little  white. 

" Is  he  young?" 

"He's  a  good  bit  older  than  you,  but  that's  not 
saying  he's  old." 

Joe  was  twenty-one,  and  sensitive  of  his  youth. 

"He'll  be  crazy  about  you  in  two  days." 

She  broke  into  delighted  laughter. 

"  I  '11  not  fall  in  love  with  him  —  you  can  be  cer- 
tain of  that.  He  is  tall  and  very  solemn.  His  hair 
is  quite  gray  over  his  ears." 

Joe  cheered. 

"What's  his  name?" 

"K.  LeMoyne." 

"K.?" 

"That's  what  he  said." 

Interest  in  the  roomer  died  away.  The  boy  fell 
into  the  ecstasy  of  content  that  always  came  with 
Sidney's  presence.  His  inarticulate  young  soul  was 
swelling  with  thoughts  that  he  did  not  know  how 
to  put  into  words.  It  was  easy  enough  to  plan  con- 
versations with  Sidney  when  he  was  away  from  her. 
But,  at  her  feet,  with  her  soft  skirts  touching  him 
as  she  moved,  her  eager  face  turned  to  him,  he  was 
miserably  speechless. 

Unexpectedly,  Sidney  yawned.  He  was  outraged. 

"  If  you 're  sleepy— " 

"  Don't  be  silly.  I  love  having  you.  I  sat  up  late 
last  night,  reading.  I  wonder  what  you  think  of  this: 

5 


one  of  the  characters  in  the  book  I  was  reading  says 
that  every  man  who  —  who  cares  for  a  woman  leaves 
his  mark  on  her!  I  suppose  she  tries  to  become  what 
he  thinks  she  is,  for  the  time  anyhow,  and  is  never 
just  her  old  self  again." 

She  said  "cares  for"  instead  of  "loves."  It  is  one 
of  the  traditions  of  youth  to  avoid  the  direet  issue 
in  life's  greatest  game.  Perhaps  "love"  is  left  to 
the  fervent  vocabulary  of  the  lover.  Certainly,  as 
if  treading  on  dangerous  ground,  Sidney  avoided  it. 

"Every  man!  How  many  men  are  supposed  to 
care  for  a  woman,  anyhow?" 

"Well,  there's  the  boy  who  —  likes  her  when 
they're  both  young." 

A  bit  of  innocent  mischief  this,  but  Joe  straight- 
ened. 

"Then  they  both  outgrow  that  foolishness.  After 
that  there  are  usually  two  rivals,  and  she  marries 
one  of  them  —  that 's  three.  And  — " 

"Why  do  they  always  outgrow  that  foolishness?  " 
His  voice  was  unsteady. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  One's  ideas  change.  Any- 
how, I  'm  only  telling  you  what  the  book  said." 

"It's  a  silly  book." 

"  I  don't  believe  it 's  true,"  she  confessed.  "When 
I  got  started  I  just  read  on.  I  was  curious." 

More  eager  than  curious,  had  she  only  known. 
She  was  fairly  vibrant  with  the  zest  of  living.  Sit- 
ting on  the  steps  of  the  little  brick  house,  her  busy 
mind  was  carrying  her  on  to  where,  beyond  the 

6 


Street,  with  its  dingy  lamps  and  blossoming  ailan- 
thus,  lay  the  world  that  was  some  day  to  lie  to  her 
hand.  Not  ambition  called  her,  but  life. 

The  boy  was  different.  Where  her  future  lay  visu- 
alized before  her,  heroic  deeds,  great  ambitions, 
wide  charity,  he  planned  years  with  her,  selfish,  con- 
tented years.  As  different  as  smug,  satisfied  sum- 
mer from  visionary,  palpitating  spring,  he  was  for 
her  —  but  she  was  for  all  the  world. 

By  shifting  his  position  his  lips  came  close  to  her 
bare  young  arm.  It  tempted  him. 

"  Don't  read  that  nonsense,'*  he  said,  his  eyes  on 
the  arm.  "And  —  I'll  never  outgrow  my  foolish- 
ness about  you,  Sidney." 

Then,  because  he  could  not  help  it,  he  bent  over 
and  kissed  her  arm. 

She  was  just  eighteen,  and  Joe's  devotion  was  very 
pleasant.  She  thrilled  to  the  touch  of  his  lips  on 
her  flesh ;  but  she  drew  her  arm  away. 

"  Please  —  I  don't  like  that  sort  of  thing." 

"Why  not?"  His  voice  was  husky. 

11  It  is  n't  right.  Besides,  the  neighbors  are  always 
looking  out  of  the  windows." 

The  drop  from  her  high  standard  of  right  and 
wrong  to  the  neighbors'  curiosity  appealed  suddenly 
to  her  sense  of  humor.  She  threw  back  her  head  and 
laughed.  He 'joined  her,  after  an  uncomfortable 
moment.  But  he  wras  very  much  in  earnest.  He  sat, 
bent  forward,  turning  his  new  straw  hat  in  his  hands. 

"  I  guess  you  know  how  I  feel.  Some  of  the  fellows 

7 


have  crushes  on  girls  and  get  over  them.  I'm  not 
like  that.  Since  the  first  day  I  saw  you  I  Ve  never 
looked  at  another  girl.  Books  can  say  what  they 
like:  there  are  people  like  that,  and  I'm  one  of 
them." 

There  was  a  touch  of  dogged  pathos  in  his  voice. 
He  was  that  sort,  and  Sidney  knew  it.  Fidelity  and 
tenderness  —  those  would  be  hers  if  she  married 
him.  He  would  always  be  there  when  she  wanted 
him,  looking  at  her  with  loving  eyes,  a  trifle  wistful 
sometimes  because  of  his  lack  of  those  very  qualities 
he  so  admired  in  her  —  her  wit,  her  resourcefulness, 
her  humor.  But  he  would  be  there,  not  strong,  per- 
haps, but  always  loyal. 

"I  thought,  perhaps,"  said  Joe,  growing  red  and 
white,  and  talking  to  the  hat,  "that  some  day, 
when  we  're  older,  you  —  you  might  be  willing  to 
marry  me,  Sid.  I'd  be  awfully  good  to  you." 

It  hurt  her  to  say  no.  Indeed,  she  could  not  bring 
herself  to  say  it.  In  all  her  short  life  she  had  never 
willfully  inflicted  a  wound.  And  because  she  was 
young,  and  did  not  realize  that  there  is  a  short  cru- 
elty, like  the  surgeon's,  that  is  mercy  in  the  end,  she 
temporized.  ' 

"There  is  such  a  lot  of  time  before  we  need  think 
of  such  things !  Can't  we  just  go  on  the  way  we  are?  " 

"  I  'm  not  very  happy  the  way  we  are." 

"Why,  Joe!" 

"Well,  I'm  not"  — doggedly.  "You're  pretty 
and  attractive.  When  I  see  a  fellow  staring  at  you, 

8 


and  I  'd  like  to  smash  his  face  for  him,  I  have  n't  the 
right." 

"And  a  precious  good  thing  for  you  that  you 
have  n't!"  cried  Sidney,  rather  shocked. 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment  between  them. 
Sidney,  to  tell  the  truth,  was  obsessed  by  a  vision  of 
Joe,  young  and  hot-eyed,  being  haled  to  the  police 
station  by  virtue  of  his  betrothal  responsibilities. 
The  boy  was  vacillating  between  relief  at  having 
spoken  and  a  heaviness  of  spirit  that  came  from 
Sidney's  lack  of  enthusiastic  response. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  about  it?" 

"If  you  are  asking  me  to  give  you  permission  to 
waylay  and  assault  every  man  who  dares  to  look  at 
me—" 

"  I  guess  this  is  all  a  joke  to  you." 

She  leaned  over  and  put  a  tender  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  I  don't  want  to  hurt  you ;  but,  Joe,  I  don't  want 
to  be  engaged  yet.  I  don't  want  to  think  about 
marrying.  There's  such  a  lot  to  do  in  the  world 
first.  There's  such  a  lot  to  see  and  be." 

"Where?"  he  demanded  bitterly.  "Here  on  this 
Street?  Do  you  want  more  time  to  pull  bastings  for 
your  mother?  Or  to  slave  for  your  Aunt  Harriet? 
Or  to  run  up  and  down  stairs,  carrying  towels  to 
roomers?  Marry  me  and  let  me  take  care  of  you." 

Once  again  her  dangerous  sense  of  humor  threat- 
ened her.  He  looked  so  boyish,  sitting  there  with  the 
moonlight  on  his  bright  hair,  so  inadequate  to  carry 
out  his  magnificent  offer.  Two  or  three  of  the  star 

9 


blossoms  from  the  tree  had  fallen  on  his  head.   She 

i 

lifted  them  carefully  away. 

"Let  me  take  care  of  myself  for  a  while.  I've 
never  lived  my  own  life.  You  know  what  I  mean. 
I  'm  not  unhappy;  but  I  want  to  do  something.  And 
some  day  I  shall,  —  not  anything  big;  I  know  I 
can't  do  that,  —  but  something  useful.  Then,  after 
years  and  years,  if  you  still  want  me,  I  '11  come  back 
to  you." 

"How  soon?" 

"How  can  I  know  that  now?  But  it  will  be  a  long 
time." 

He  drew  a  long  breath  and  got  up.  All  the  joy  had 
gone  out  of  the  summer  night  for  him,  poor  lad.  He 
glanced  down  the  Street,  where  Palmer  Howe  had 
gone  home  happily  with  Sidney's  friend  Christine. 
Palmer  would  always  know  how  he  stood  with 
Christine.  She  would  never  talk  about  doing  things, 
or  being  things.  Either  she  would  marry  Palmer  or 
she  would  not.  But  Sidney  was  not  like  that.  A  fel- 
low did  not  even  caress  her  easily.  When  he  had  only 
kissed  her  arm  —  He  trembled  a  little  at  the  memory. 

"  I  shall  always  want  you,"  he  said.  "  Only — you 
will  never  come  back." 

It  had  not  occurred  to  either  of  them  that  this 
coming  back,  so  tragically  considered,  was  depend- 
ent on  an  entirely  problematical  going  away.  Noth- 
ing, that  early  summer  night,  seemed  more  unlikely 
than  that  Sidney  would  ever  be  free  to  live  her  own 
Hie.  The  Street,  stretching  away  to  the  north  and  to 

10 


the  south  in  two  lines  of  houses  that  seemed  to  meet 
in  the  distance,  hemmed  her  in.  She  had  been  born 
in  the  little  brick  house,  and,  as  she  was  of  it,  so  it 
was  of  her.  Her  hands  had  smoothed  and  painted 
the  pine  floors;  her  hands  had  put  up  the  twine  on 
which  the  morning-glories  in  the  yard  covered  the 
fences;  had,  indeed,  with  what  agonies  of  slacking 
lime  and  adding  blueing,  whitewashed  the  fence  it- 
self! 

" She's  capable,"  Aunt  Harriet  had  grumblingly 
admitted,  watching  from  her  sewing-machine  Sid- 
ney's  strong  young  arms  at  this  humble  spring  task. 

"She's  wonderful!"  her  mother  had  said,  as  she 
bent  over  her  hand  work.  She  was  not  strong  enough 
to  run  the  sewing-machine. 

So  Joe  Drummond  stood  on  the  pavement  and 
saw  his  dream  of  taking  Sidney  in  his  arms  fade  into 
an  indefinite  futurity. 

"  I  'm  not  going  to  give  you  up,"  he  said  doggedly. 
"When  you  come  back,  I'll  be  waiting." 

The  shock  being  over,  and  things  only  postponed, 
he  dramatized  his  grief  a  trifle,  thrust  his  hands 
savagely  into  his  pockets,  and  scowled  down  the 
Street.  In  the  line  of  his  vision,  his  quick  eye  caught 
a  tiny  moving  shadow,  lost  it,  found  it  again. 

"Great  Scott!  There  goes  Reginald!"  he  cried, 
and  ran  after  the  shadow. 

"Watch  for  the  McKees'  cat!" 

Sidney  was  running  by  that  time;  they  were  gain- 
ing. Their  quarry,  a  four-inch  chipmunk,  hesitated, 

ii 


gave  a  protesting  squeak,  and  was  caught  in  Sidney's 
hand. 

"You  wretch!"  she  cried.  "You  miserable  little 
beast  —  with  cats  everywhere,  and  not  a  nut  for 
miles!" 

"That  reminds  me,"  -Joe  put  a  hand  into  his 
pocket,  —  "I  brought  some  chestnuts  for  him,  and 
forgot  them.  Here." 

Reginald's  escape  had  rather  knocked  the  tragedy 
out  of  the  evening.  True,  Sidney  would  not  marry 
him  for  years,  but  she  had  practically  promised  to 
sometime.  And  when  one  is  twenty-one,  and  it  is  a 
summer  night,  and  life  stretches  eternities  ahead, 
what  are  a  few  years  more  or  less? 

Sidney  was  holding  the  tiny  squirrel  in  warm,  pro- 
tecting hands.  She  smiled  up  at  the  boy. 

"Good-night,  Joe." 

"Good-night.  I  say,  Sidney,  it's  more  than  half 
an  engagement.  Won't  you  kiss  me  good-night?" 

She  hesitated,  flushed  and  palpitating.  Kisses 
were  rare  in  the  staid  little  household  to  which  she 
belonged. 

"I  — I  think  not." 

"  Please !  I'm  not  very  happy,  and  it  will  be  some- 
thing to  remember." 

Perhaps,  after  all,  Sidney's  first  kiss  would  have 
gone  without  her  heart,  —  which  was  a  thing  she 
had  determined  would  never  happen,  —  gone  out  of 
sheer  pity.  But  a  tall  figure  loomed  out  of  the 
shadows  and  approached  with  quick  strides. 

12 


"The  roomer!"  cried  Sidney,  and  backed  away. 

"Damn  the  roomer!" 

Poor  Joe,  with  the  summer  evening  quite  spoiled, 
with  no  caress  to  remember,  and  with  a  potential 
rival,  who  possessed  both  the  years  and  the  inches 
he  lacked,  coming  up  the  Street! 

The  roomer  advanced  steadily.  When  he  reached 
the  doorstep,  Sidney  was  demurely  seated  and  quite 
alone.  The  roomer,  who  had  walked  fast,  stopped 
and  took  off  his  hat.  He  looked  very  warm.  He 
carried  a  suit-case,  which  was  as  it  should  be.  The 
men  of  the  Street  always  carried  their  own  luggage, 
except  the  younger  Wilson  across  the  way.  His 
tastes  were  known  to  be  luxurious. 

"Hot,  is  n't  it?"  Sidney  inquired,  after  a  formal 
greeting.  She  indicated  the  place  on  the  step  just 
vacated  by  Joe.  "You'd  better  cool  off  out  here. 
The  house  is  like  an  oven.  I  think  I  should  have 
warned  you  of  that  before  you  took  the  room.  These 
little  houses  with  low  roofs  are  fearfully  hot." 

The  new  roomer  hesitated.  The  steps  were  very 
low,  and  he  was  tall.  Besides,  he  did  not  care  to  es- 
tablish any  relations  with  the  people  in  the  house. 
Long  evenings  in  which  to  read,  quiet  nights  in 
which  to  sleep  and  forget  —  these  were  the  things, 
he  had  come  for. 

But  Sidney  had  moved  over  and  was  smiling  up  at 
him.  He  folded  up  awkwardly  on  the  low  step.  He 
seemed  much  too  big  for  the  house.  Sidney  had  a 
panicky  thought  of  the  little  room  upstairs. 

13 


"  I  don't  mind  heat.  I  —  I  suppose  I  don't  think 
about  it,"  said  the  roomer,  rather  surprised  at  him- 
self. 

Reginald,  having  finished  his  chestnut,  squeaked 
for  another.  The  roomer  started. 

"Just  Reginald  —  my  ground-squirrel."  Sidney 
was  skinning  a  nut  with  her  strong  white  teeth. 
" That's  another  thing  I  should  have  told  you.  I  'm 
afraid  you'll  be  sorry  you  took  the  room." 

The  roomer  smiled  in  the  shadow. 

" I'm  beginning  to  think  that  you  are  sorry." 

She  was  all  anxiety  to  reassure  him :  — 

"It's  because  of  Reginald.  He  lives  under  my  — 
under  your  bureau.  He's  really  not  troublesome; 
but  he 's  building  a  nest  under  the  bureau,  and  if  you 
don't  know  about  him,  it's  rather  unsettling  to  see  a 
paper  pattern  from  the  sewing-room,  or  a  piece  of 
cloth,  moving  across  the  floor." 

Mr.  Le  Moyne  thought  it  might  be  very  interest- 
ing. "Although,  if  there's  nest-building  going  on, 
is  n't  it  —  er  —  possible  that  Reginald  Is  a  lady 
ground-squirrel?  " 

Sidney  was  rather  distressed,  and,  seeing  this,  he 
hastened  to  add  that,  for  all  he  knew,  all  ground- 
squirrels  built  nests,  regardless  of  sex.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  it  developed  that  he  knew  nothing  what- 
ever of  ground-squirrels.  Sidney  was  relieved.  She 
chatted  gayly  of  the  tiny  creature  —  of  his  rescue  in 
the  woods  from  a  crowd  of  little  boys,  of  his  restora- 
tion to  health  and  spirits,  and  of  her  expectation, 


when  he  was  quite  strong,  of  taking  him  to  the  woods 
and  freeing  him. 

Le  Moyne,  listening  attentively,  began  to  be  in- 
terested. His  quick  mind  had  grasped  the  fact  that 
it  was  the  girl's  bedroom  he  had  taken.  Other  things 
he  had  gathered  that  afternoon  from  the  humming 
of  a  sewing-machine,  from  Sidney's  businesslike 
way  of  renting  the  little  room,  from  the  glimpse  of  a 
woman  in  a  sunny  window,  bent  over  a  needle.  Gen- 
teel poverty  was  what  it  meant,  and  more  —  the 
constant  drain  of  disheartened,  middle-aged  wo- 
men on  the  youth  and  courage  of  the  girl  beside 
him. 

K.  Le  Moyne,  who  was  living  his  own  tragedy 
those  days,  what  with  poverty  and  other  things,  sat 
on  the  doorstep  while  Sidney  talked,  and  swore  a 
quiet  oath  to  be  no  further  weight  on  the  girl's 
buoyant  spirit.  And,  since  determining  on  a  virtue 
is  halfway  to  gaining  it,  his  voice  lost  its  perfunctory 
note.  He  had  no  intention  of  letting  the  Street  en- 
croach on  him.  He  had  built  up  a  wall  between 
himself  and  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  he  would  not 
scale  it.  But  he  held  no  grudge  against  it.  Let  others 
get  what  they  could  out  of  living. 

Sidney,  suddenly  practical,  broke  in  on  his 
thoughts :  — 

"Where  are  you  going  to  get  your  meals?" 

11 1  had  n't  thought  about  it.  I  can  stop  in  some- 
where on  my  way  downtown.  I  work  in  the  gas 
office  —  I  don't  believe  I  told  you.  It's  rather  hap- 

15 


hazard  —  not  the  gas  office,  but  the  eating.  How- 
ever, it's  convenient." 

"It's  very  bad  for  you/'  said  Sidney,  with  deci- 
sion. "  It  leads  to  slovenly  habits,  such  as  going  with- 
out when  you  're  in  a  hurry,  and  that  sort  of  thing. 
The  only  thing  is  to  have  some  one  expecting  you  at 
a  certain  time." 

"  It  sounds  like  marriage."  He  was  lazily  amused. 

"It  sounds  like  Mrs.  McKee's  boarding-house  at 
the  corner.  Twenty-one  meals  for  five  dollars,  and  a 
ticket  to  punch.  Tillie,  the  dining-room  girl,  punches 
for  every  meal  you  get.  If  you  miss  any  meals,  your 
ticket  is  good  until  it  is  punched.  But  Mrs.  McKee 
does  n't  like  it  if  you  miss." 

"Mrs.  McKee  for  me,"  said  Le  Moyne.  "I  dare 
say,  if  I  know  that  —  er  —  Tillie  is  waiting  with  the 
punch,  I'll  be  fairly  regular  to  my  meals." 

It  was  growing  late.  The  Street,  which  mistrusted 
night  air,  even  on  a  hot  summer  evening,  was  closing 
its  windows.  Reginald,  having  eaten  his  fill,  had 
cuddled  in  the  warm  hollow  of  Sidney's  lap,  and 
slept.  By  shifting  his  position,  the  man  was  able  to 
see  the  girl's  face.  Very  lovely  it  was,  he  thought. 
Very  pure,  almost  radiant  —  and  young.  From  the 
middle  age  of  his  almost  thirty  years,  she  was  a  child. 
There  had  been  a  boy  in  the  shadows  when  he  came 
up  the  Street.  Of  course  there  would  be  a  boy  —  a 
nice,  clear-eyed  chap  — 

Sidney  was  looking  at  the  moon.  With  that  dream- 
er's part  of  her  that  she  had  inherited  from  her  dead 

16 


and  gone  father,  she  was  quietly  worshiping  the 
night.  But  her  busy  brain  was  working,  too,  —  the 
practical  brain  that  she  had  got  from  her  mother's 
side. 

"What  about  your  washing?"  she  inquired  un- 
expectedly. 

K.  Le  Moyne,  who  had  built  a  wall  between  him- 
self and  the  world,  had  already  married  her  to  the 
youth  of  the  shadows,  and  was  feeling  an  odd  sense 
of  loss. 

"Washing?" 

"I  suppose  youVe  been  sending  things  to  the 
laundry,  and  —  what  do  you  do  about  your  stock- 
ings?" 

"Buy  cheap  ones  and  throw  'em  away  when 
they're  worn  out."  There  seemed  to  be  no  reserves 
with  this  surprising  young  person. 

"And  buttons?" 

"Use  safety-pins.  When  they're  closed  one  can 
button  over  them  as  well  as  — " 

"  I  think,"  said  Sidney,  "that  it  is  quite  time  some 
one  took  a  little  care  of  you.  If  you  will  give  Katie, 
our  maid,  twenty-five  cents  a  week,  she'll  do  your 
washing  and  not  tear  your  things  to  ribbons.  And 
I'll  mend  them." 

Sheer  stupefaction  was  K.  Le  Moyne's.  After  a 
moment :  — 

"You're  really  rather  wonderful,  Miss  Page. 
Here  am  I,  lodged,  fed,  washed,  ironed,  and  mended 
for  seven  dollars  and  seventy- five  cents  a  week!" 

17 


"I  hope,"  said  Sidney  severely,  "that  you'll  put 
what  you  save  in  the  bank." 

He  was  still  somewhat  dazed  when  he  went  up  the 
narrow  staircase  to  his  swept  and  garnished  room. 
Never,  in  all  of  a  life  that  had  been  active,  —  until 
recently,  —  had  he  been  so  conscious  of  friendliness 
and  kindly  interest.  He  expanded  under  it.  Some 
of  the  tired  lines  left  his  face.  Under  the  gas  chande- 
lier, he  straightened  and  threw  out  his  arms.  Then 
he  reached  down  into  his  coat  pocket  and  drew  out 
a  wide-awake  and  suspicious  Reginald. 

"Good-night,  Reggie!"  he  said.  "Good-night, 
old  top!"  He  hardly  recognized  his  own  voice.  It 
was  quite  cheerful,  although  the  little  room  was  hot, 
and  although,  when  he  stood,  he  had  a  perilous  feel- 
ing that  the  ceiling  was  close  above.  He  deposited 
Reginald  carefully  on  the  floor  in  front  of  the  bureau, 
and  the  squirrel,  after  eyeing  him,  retreated  to  its 
nest. 

It  was  late  when  K.  Le  Moyne  retired  to  bed. 
Wrapped  in  a  paper  and  securely  tied  for  the  morn- 
ing's disposal,  was  considerable  masculine  under- 
clothing, ragged  and  buttonless.  Not  for  worlds 
would  he  have  had  Sidney  discover  his  threadbare 
inner  condition. 

"New  underwear  for  yours  to-morrow,  K.  Le 
Moyne,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  unknotted  his 
cravat.  "  New  underwear,  and  something  besides  K. 
for  a  first  name." 

He  pondered  over  that  for  a  time,  taking  off  his 

18 


shoes  slowly  and  thinking  hard.  "Kenneth,  King, 
Kerr-  None  of  them  appealed  to  him.  And, 
after  all,  what  did  it  matter?  The  old  heaviness 
came  over  him. 

He  dropped  a  shoe,  and  Reginald,  who  had  gained 
enough  courage  to  emerge  and  sit  upright  on  the 
fender,  fell  over  backward. 

Sidney  did  not  sleep  much  that  night.  She  lay 
awake,  gazing  into  the  scented  darkness,  her  arms 
under  her  head.  Love  had  come  into  her  life  at  last. 
A  man  —  only  Joe,  of  course,  but  it  was  not  the  boy 
himself,  but  what  he  stood  for,  that  thrilled  her  — 
had  asked  her  to  be  his  wife. 

In  her  little  back  room,  with  the  sweetness  of  the 
tree  blossoms  stealing  through  the  open  window, 
Sidney  faced  the  great  mystery  of  life  and  love,  and 
flung  out  warm  young  arms.  Joe  would  be  thinking 
of  her  now,  as  she  thought  of  him.  Or  would  he  have 
gone  to  sleep,  secure  in  her  half  promise?  Did  he 
really  love  her? 

The  desire  to  be  loved !  There  was  coming  to  Sid- 
ney a  time  when  love  would  mean,  not  receiving, 
but  giving  —  the  divine  fire  instead  of  the  pale  flame 
of  youth.  At  last  she  slept. 

A  night  breeze  came  through  the  windows  and 
spread  coolness  through  the  little  house.  The  ailan- 
thus  tree  waved  in  the  moonlight  and  sent  sprawling 
shadows  over  the  wall  of  K.  Le  Moyne's  bedroom. 
In  the  yard  the  leaves  of  the  morning-glory  vines 
quivered  as  if  under  the  touch  of  a  friendly  hand. 

19 


K.  Le  Moyne  slept  diagonally  in  his  bed,  being 
very  long.  In  sleep  the  lines  were  smoothed  out  of 
his  face.  He  looked  like  a  tired,  overgrown  boy.  And 
while  he  slept  the  ground-squirrel  ravaged  the  pock- 
ets of  his  shabby  coat. 


CHAPTER  II 

SIDNEY  could  not  remember  when  her  Aunt  Harriet 
had  not  sat  at  the  table.  It  was  one  of  her  earliest 
disillusionments  to  learn  that  Aunt  Harriet  lived 
with  them,  not  because  she  wished  to,  but  because 
Sidney's  father  had  borrowed  her  small  patrimony 
and  she  was  "boarding  it  out." 

Eighteen  years  she  had  "boarded  it  out."  Sidney 
had  been  born  and  grown  to  girlhood;  the  dreamer 
father  had  gone  to  his  grave,  with  valuable  patents 
lost  for  lack  of  money  to  renew  them  —  gone  with 
his  faith  in  himself  destroyed,  but  with  his  faith  in 
the  world  undiminished :  for  he  left  his  wife  and 
daughter  without  a  dollar  of  life  insurance. 

Harriet  Kennedy  had  voiced  her  own  view  of  the 
matter,  the  day  after  the  funeral,  to  one  of  the 
neighbors:  — 

"He  left  no  insurance.  Why  should  he  bother? 
He  left  me." 

To  the  little  widow,  her  sister,  she  had  been  no 
less  bitter,  and  more  explicit. 

"It  looks  to  me,  Anna,"  she  said,  "  as  if  by  borrow- 
ing everything  I  had  George  had  bought  me,  body 
and  soul,  for  the  rest  of  my  natural  life.  I  '11  stay 
now  until  Sidney  is  able  to  take  hold.  Then  I  'm  go- 
ing to  live  my  own  life.  It  will  be  a  little  late,  but 
the  Kennedys  live  a  long  time." 

21 


The  day  of  Harriet's  leaving  had  seemed  far  away 
to  Anna  Page.  Sidney  was  still  her  baby,  a  pretty, 
rather  leggy  girl,  in  her  first  year  at  the  High  School, 
prone  to  saunter  home  with  three  or  four  knicker- 
bockered  boys  in  her  train,  reading  "The  Duchess" 
stealthily,  and  begging  for  longer  dresses.  She  had 
given  up  her  dolls,  but  she  still  made  clothes  for 
them  out  of  scraps  from  Harriet's  sewing-room.  In 
the  parlance  of  the  Street,  Harriet  " sewed"  -  and 
sewed  well. 

She  had  taken  Anna  into  business  with  her,  but 
the  burden  of  the  partnership  had  always  been  on 
Harriet.  To  give  her  credit,  she  had  not  complained. 
She  was  past  forty  by  that  time,  and  her  youth  had 
slipped  by  in  that  back  room  with  its  dingy  wall- 
paper covered  with  paper  patterns. 

On  the  day  after  the  arrival  of  the  roomer,  Harriet 
Kennedy  came  down  to  breakfast  a  little  late.  Katie, 
the  general  housework  girl,  had  tied  a  small  whit 3 
apron  over  her  generous  gingham  one,  and  was  serv-. 
ing  breakfast.  From  the  kitchen  came  the  clump  of 
an  iron,  and  cheerful  singing.  Sidney  was  ironing 
napkins.  Mrs.  Page,  who  had  taken  advantage  of 
Harriet's  tardiness  to  read  the  obituary  column  in 
the  morning  paper,  dropped  it. 

But  Harriet  did  not  sit  down.  It  was  her  custom  to 
jerk  her  chair  out  and  drop  into  it,  as  if  she  grudged 
every  hour  spent  on  food.  Sidney,  not  hearing  the 
jerk,  paused  with  her  iron  in  air. 

"Sidney." 

22 


"Yes,  Aunt  Harriet." 

"Will  you  come  in,  please?" 

Katie  took  the  iron  from  her. 

11  You  go.  She 's  all  dressed  up,  and  she  does  n't 
want  any  coffee." 

So  Sidney  went  in.  It  was  to  her  that  Harriet 
made  her  speech :  — 

"Sidney,  when  your  father  died,  I  promised  to 
look  after  both  you  and  your  mother  until  you  were 
able  to  take  care  of  yourself.  That  was  five  years 
ago.  Of  course,  even  before  that  I  had  helped  to 
support  you." 

"If  you  would  only  have  your  coffee,  Harriet!" 

Mrs.  Page  sat  with  her  hand  on  the  handle  of  the 
old  silver-plated  coffee-pot.  Harriet  ignored  her. 

"You  are  a  young  woman  now.  You  have  health 
and  energy,  and  you  have  youth,  which  I  have  n't. 
I  'm  past  forty.  In  the  next  twenty  years,  at  the  out- 
side, I  Ve  got  not  only  to  support  myself,  but  to  save 
something  to  keep  me  after  that,  if  I  live.  I  '11  prob- 
ably live  to  be  ninety.  I  don't  want  to  live  forever, 
but  I  Ve  always  played  in  hard  luck." 

Sidney  returned  her  gaze  steadily. 

"I  see.  Well,  Aunt  Harriet,  you're  quite  right. 
You've  been  a  saint  to  us,  but  if  you  want  to  go 
away — " 

"Harriet!"  wailed  Mrs.  Page,  "you're  not  think- 
ing—" 

"Please,  mother." 

Harriet's  eyes  softened  as  she  looked  at  the  girL 

23 


"We  can  manage,"  said  Sidney  quietly.  "We'll 
miss  you,  but  it 's  time  we  learned  to  depend  on  our- 
selves." 

After  that,  in  a  torrent,  came  Harriet's  declaration 
of  independence.  And,  mixed  in  with  its  pathetic 
jumble  of  recriminations,  hostility  to  her  sister's 
dead  husband,  and  resentment  for  her  lost  years, 
came  poor  Harriet's  hopes  and  ambitions,  the  tragic 
plea  of  a  woman  who  must  substitute  for  the  optim- 
ism and  energy  of  youth  the  grim  determination  of 
middle  age. 

"  I  can  do  good  work,"  she  finished.  "  I  'm  full  of 
ideas,  if  I  could  get  a  chance  to  work  them  out.  But 
there 's  no  chance  here.  There  is  n't  a  woman  on  the 
Street  who  knows  real  clothes  when  she  sees  them. 
They  don't  even  know  how  to  wear  their  corsets. 
They  send  me  bundles  of  hideous  stuff,  with  needles 
and  shields  and  imitation  silk  for  lining,  and  when 
I  turn  out  something  worth  while  out  of  the  mess, 
they  think  the  dress  is  queer!" 

Mrs.  Page  could  not  get  back  of  Harriet's  revolt 
to  its  cause.  To  her,  Harriet  was  not  an  artist  plead- 
ing for  her  art;  she  was  a  sister  and  a  bread-winner 
deserting  her  trust. 

"I'm  sure,"  she  said  stiffly,  "we  paid  you  back 
every  cent  we  borrowed.  If  you  stayed  here  after 
George  died,  it  was  because  you  offered  to." 

Her  chin  worked.  She  fumbled  for  the  handker- 
chief at  her  belt.  But  Sidney  went  around  the  table 
and  flung  a  young  arm  over  her  aunt's  shoulders, 

24 


"Why  did  n't  you  say  all  that  a  year  ago?  We've 
been  selfish,  but  we're  not  as  bad  as  you  think.  And 
if  any  one  in  this  world  is  entitled  to  success,  you 
are.  Of  course  we'll  manage." 

Harriet's  iron  repression  almost  gave  way.  She 
covered  her  emotion  with  details :  — 

"Mrs.  Lorenz  is  going  to  let  me  make  Christine 
some  things,  and  if  they  're  all  right  I  may  make  her 
trousseau." 

"Trousseau  —  for  Christine!*' 

"She's  not  engaged,  but  her  mother  says  it's  only 
a  matter  of  a  short  time.  I'm  going  to  take  two 
rooms  in  the  business  part  of  town,  and  put  a  couch 
in  the  back  room  to  sleep  on." 

Sidney's  mind  flew  to  Christine  and  her  bright  fu- 
ture, to  a  trousseau  bought  with  the  Lorenz  money, 
to  Christine  settled  down,  a  married  woman,  with 
Palmer  Howe.  She  came  back  with  an  effort.  l^ar- 
riet  had  two  triangular  red  spots  in  her  sali'Sw 
cheeks. 

" I  can  get  a  few  good  models  —  that's  the  only 
way  to  start.  And  if  you  care  to  do  hand  work  for 
me,  Anna,  I  '11  send  it  to  you,  and  pay  you  the  regu- 
lar rates.  There  is  n't  the  call  for  it  there  used  to  be, 
but  just  a  touch  gives  dash." 

All  of  Mrs.  Page's  grievances  had  worked  their 
way  to  the  surface.  Sidney  and  Harriet  had  made 
her  world,  such  as  it  was,  and  her  world  was  in  revolt. 
She  flung  out  her  hands. 

"  I  suppose  I  must  do  something.  With  you  leav- 

25 


ing,  and  Sidney  renting  her  room  and  sleeping  on  a 
folding-bed  in  the  sewing-room,  everything  seems 
upside  down.  I  never  thought  I  should  live  to  see 
strange  men  running  in  and  out  of  this  house  and 
carrying  latch-keys." 

This  in  reference  to  Le  Moyne,  whose  tall  figure 
had  made  a  hurried  exit  some  time  before. 

Nothing  could  have  symbolized  Harriet's  revolt 
more  thoroughly  than  her  going  upstairs  after  a 
hurried  breakfast,  and  putting  on  her  hat  and  coat. 
She  had  heard  of  rooms,  she  said,  and  there  was 
nothing  urgent  in  the  work-room.  Her  eyes  were 
brighter  already  as  she  went  out.  Sidney,  kissing 
her  in  the  hall  and  wishing  her  luck,  realized  sud- 
denly what  a  burden  she  and  her  mother  must  have 
been  for  the  last  few  years.  She  threw  her  head  up 
Pr°udly.  They  would  never  be  a  burden  again  — 
nev^r,  as  long  as  she  had  strength  and  health ! 

!iy  evening  Mrs.  Page  had  worked  herself  into  a 
state  bordering  on  hysteria.  Harriet  was  out  most 
of  the  day.  She  came  in  at  three  o'clock,  and  Katie 
gave  her  a  cup  of  tea.  At  the  news  of  her  sister's 
condition,  she  merely  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"She'll  not  die,  Katie,"  she  said  calmly.  "But 
see  that  Miss  Sidney  eats  something,  and  if  she  is 
worried  tell  her  I  said  to  get  Dr.  Ed." 

Very  significant  of  Harriet's  altered  outlook  was 
this  casual  summoning  of  the  Street's  family  doctor. 
She  was  already  dealing  in  larger  figures.  A  sort  of 
recklessness  had  come  over  her  since  the  morning. 

26 


Already  she  was  learning  that  peace  of  mind  is  es- 
sential to  successful  endeavor.  Somewhere  Harriet 
had  read  a  quotation  from  a  Persian  poet;  she  could 
not  remember  it,  but  its  sense  had  stayed  with  her: 
"What  though  we  spill  a  few  grains  of  corn,  or 
drops  of  oil  from  the  cruse?  These  be  the  price  of 
peace." 

So  Harriet,  having  spilled  oil  from  her  cruse  in  the 
shape  of  Dr.  Ed,  departed  blithely.  The  recklessness 
of  pure  adventure  was  in  her  blood.  She  had  taken 
rooms  at  a  rental  that  she  determinedly  put  out  of 
her  mind,  and  she  was  on  her  way  to  buy  furniture. 
No  pirate,  fitting  out  a  ship  for  the  highways  of  the 
sea,  ever  experienced  more  guilty  and  delightful  ex- 
citement. 

The  afternoon  dragged  away.  Dr.  Ed  was  out  "on 
a  case"  and  might  not  be  in  until  evening.  Sidney 
sat  in  the  darkened  room  and  waved  a  fan  over  her 
mother's  rigid  form. 

At  half  after  five,  Johnny  Rosenfeld  from  the  alley, 
who  worked  for  a  florist  after  school,  brought  a  box 
of  roses  to  Sidney,  and  departed  grinning  impishly. 
He  knew  Joe,  had  seen  him  in  the  store.  Soon  the 
alley  knew  that  Sidney  had  received  a  dozen  Killar- 
ney  roses  at  three  dollars  and  a  half,  and  was  prob- 
ably engaged  to  Joe  Drummond. 

"Dr.  Ed,"  said  Sidney,  as  he  followed  her  down 
die  stairs,  "can  you  spare  the  time  to  talk  to  me  a 
little  while?" 


Perhaps  the  elder  Wilson  had  a  quick  vision  of  the 
crowded  office  waiting  across  the  Street;  but  his 
reply  was  prompt:  — 

"Any  amount  of  time." 

Sidney  led 'the  way  into  the  small  parlor,  where 
Joe's  roses,  refused  by  the  petulant  invalid  upstairs, 
bloomed  alone. 

" First  of  all,"  said  Sidney,  "did  you  mean  what 
you  said  upstairs?" 

Dr.  Ed  thought  quickly. 

"Of  course;  but  what?" 

"You  said  I  was  a  born  nurse." 

The  Street  was  very  fond  of  Dr.  Ed.  It  did  not 
always  approve  of  him.  It  said  —  which  was  per- 
fectly true  —  that  he  had  sacrificed  himself  to  his 
brother's  career:  that,  for  the  sake  of  that  brilliant 
young  surgeon,  Dr.  Ed  had  done  without  wife  and 
children ;  that  to  send  him  abroad  he  had  saved  and 
skimped ;  that  he  still  went  shabby  and  drove  the  old 
buggy,  while  Max  drove  about  in  an  automobile 
coupe.  Sidney,  not  at  all  of  the  stuff  martyrs  are 
made  of,  sat  in  the  scented  parlor  and,  remembering 
all  this,  was  ashamed  of  her  rebellion. 

" I'm  going  into  a  hospital,"  said  Sidney. 

Dr.  Ed  waited.  He  liked  to  have  all  the  symptoms 
before  he  made  a  diagnosis  or  ventured  an  opinion. 
So  Sidney,  trying  to  be  cheerful,  and  quite  uncon- 
scious of  the  anxiety  in  her  voice,  told  her  story. 

"It's  fearfully  hard  work,  of  course,"  he  com* 
mented,  when  she  had  finished. 

28 


"So  is  anything  worth  while.  Look  at  the  way 
you  work!" 

Dr.  Ed  rose  and  wandered  around  the  room. 

"You're  too  young." 

"I'll  get  older." 

"  I  don't  think  I  like  the  idea,"  he  said  at  last. 
"It's  splendid  work  for  an  older  woman.  But  it's 
life,  child  —  life  in  the  raw.  As  we  get  along  in  years 
we  lose  our  illusions  —  some  of  them,  not  all,  thank 
God.  But  for  you,  at  your  age,  to  be  brought  face  to 
face  with  things  as  they  are,  and  not  as  we  want 
them  to  be  —  it  seems  such  an  unnecessary  sacri- 
fice." 

"Don't  you  think,"  said  Sidney  bravely,  "that 
you  are  a  poor  person  to  talk  of  sacrifice?  Have  n't 
you  always,  all  your  life  — " 

Dr.  Ed  colored  to  the  roots  of  his  straw-colored 
hair. 

"  Certainly  not,"  he  said  almost  irritably.  "  Max 
had  genius ;  I  had  —  ability.  That 's  different.  One 
real  success  is  better  than  two  halves.  Not"  —  he 
smiled  down  at  her  —  "not  that  I  minimize  my  use- 
fulness. Somebody  has  to  do  the  hack-work,  and,  if 
I  do  say  it  myself,  I'm  a  pretty  good  hack." 

"Very  well,"  said  Sidney.  "Then  I  shall  be  a 
hack,  too.  Of  course,  I  had  thought  of  other  things, 
—  my  father  wanted  me  to  go  to  college,  —  but  I  'm 
strong  and  willing.  And  one  thing  I  must  make  up 
my  mind  to,  Dr.  Ed;  I  shall  have  to  support  my 
mother." 

29 


Harriet  passed  the  door  on  her  way  in  to  a  belated 
supper.  The  man  in  the  parlor  had  a  momentary 
glimpse  of  her  slender,  sagging  shoulders,  her  thin 
face,  herlindisguised  middle  age. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  when  she  was  out  of  hearing. 
"It's  hard,  but  I  dare  say  it's  right  enough,  too. 
Your  aunt  ought  to  have  her  chance.  Only  —  I  wish 
it  did  n't  have  to  be." 

Sidney,  left  alone,  stood  in  the  little  parlor  beside 
the  roses.  She  touched  them  tenderly,  absently. 
Life,  which  the  day  before  had  called  her  with  the 
beckoning  finger  of  dreams,  now  reached  out  grim, 
insistent  hands.  Life  —  in  the  raw. 


CHAPTER   III 

K.  LE  MOYNE  had  wakened  early  that  first  morn- 
ing in  his  new  quarters.  When  he  sat  up  and  yawned, 
it  was  to  see  his  worn  cravat  disappearing  with  vig- 
orous tugs  under  the  bureau.  He  rescued  it,  gently 
but  firmly. 

"You  and  I,  Reginald,"  he  apostrophized  the 
bureau,  "will  have  to  come  to  an  understanding. 
What  I  leave  on  the  floor  you  may  have,  but  what 
blows  down  is  not  to  be  touched." 

Because  he  was  young  and  very  strong,  he  wak- 
ened to  a  certain  lightness  of  spirit.  The  morning 
sun  had  always  called  him  to  a  new  day,  and  the 
sun  was  Shining.  But  he  grew  depressed  as  he  pre- 
pared for  the  office.  He  told  himself  savagely,  as  he 
put  on  his  shabby  clothing,  that,  having  sought  for 
peace  and  now  found  it,  he  was  an  ass  for  resenting 
it.  The  trouble  was,  of  course,  that  he  came  of  a 
fighting  stock:  soldiers  and  explorers,  even  a  gentle- 
man adventurer  or  two,  had  been  his  forefathers. 
He  loathed  peace  with  a  deadly  loathing. 

Having  given  up  everything  else,  K.  Le  Moyne 
had  also  given  up  the  love  of  woman.  That,  of 
course,  is  figurative.  He  had  been  too  busy  for  wo- 
men, and  now  he  was  too  idle.  A  small  part  of  his 
brain  added  figures  in  the  office  of  a  gas  company 
daily,  for  the  sum  of  two  dollars  and  fifty  cents  per 


eight-hour  working  day.  But  the  real  K.  Le  Moyne, 
that  had  dreamed  dreams,  had  nothing  to  do  with  the 
figures,  but  sat  somewhere  in  his  head  and  mocked 
him  as  he  worked  at  his  task. 

" Time's  going  by,  and  here  you  are!'*  mocked  the 
real  person  —  who  was,  of  course,  not  K.  Le  Moyne 
at  all.  "You're  the  hell  of  a  lot  of  use,  are  n't  you? 
Two  and  two  are  four  and  three  are  seven  —  take 
off  the  discount.  That's  right.  It 's  a  man's  work, 
is  n't  it?  " 

" Somebody's  got  to  do  this  sort  of  thing,"  pro- 
tested the  small  part  of  his  brain  that  earned  the 
two-fifty  per  working  day.  "And  it's  a  great  an- 
aesthetic. He  can't  think  when  he 's  doing  it.  There 's 
something  practical  about  figures,  and  —  rational." 

He  dressed  quickly,  ascertaining  that  he  had 
enough  money  to  buy  a  five-dollar  ticket  at  Mrs. 
McKee's;  and,  having  given  up  the  love  of  woman 
with  other  things,  he  was  careful  not  to  look  about 
for  Sidney  on  his  way. 

He  breakfasted  at  Mrs.  McKee's,  and  was  initi- 
ated into  the  mystery  of  the  ticket  punch.  The  food 
was  rather  good,  certainly  plentiful;  and  even  his 
squeamish  morning  appetite  could  find  no  fault  with 
the  self-respecting  tidiness  of  the  place.  Tillie  proved 
to  be  neat  and  austere.  He  fancied  it  would  not  be 
pleasant  to  be  very  late  for  one's  meals  —  in  fact, 
Sidney  had  hinted  as  much.  Some  of  the  "mealers" 
• —  the  Street's  name  for  them  —  ventured  on  vari- 
ous small  familiarities  of  speech  with  Tillie.  K.  Le 

32 


Moyne  himself  was  scrupulously  polite,  but  reserved. 
He  was  determined  not  to  let  the  Street  encroach  on 
his  wretchedness.  Because  he  had  come  to  live  there 
was  no  reason  why  it  should  adopt  him.  But  he  was 
very  polite.  When  the  deaf-and-dumb  book  agent 
wrote  something  on  a  pencil  pad  and  pushed  it 
toward  him,  he  replied  in  kind. 

"We  are  very  glad  to  welcome  you  to  the  McKee 
family,"  was  what  was  written  on  the  pad. 

"  Very  happy,  indeed,  to  be  with  you,"  wrote  back 
Le  Moyne  —  and  realized  with  a  sort  of  shock  that 
he  meant  it. 

The  kindly  greeting  had  touched  him.  The  greet- 
ing and  the  breakfast  cheered  him ;  also,  he  had  evi- 
dently made  some  headway  with  Tillie. 

"Don't  you  want  a  toothpick?"  she  asked,  as  he 
went  out. 

In  K  's  previous  walk  of  life  there  had  been  no 
toothpicks;  or,  if  there  were  any,  they  were  kept, 
along  with  the  family  scandals,  in  a  closet.  But 
nearly  a  year  of  buffeting  about  had  taught  him 
many  things.  He  took  one,  and  placed  it  noncha- 
lantly in  his  waistcoat  pocket,  as  he  had  seen  the 
Others  do. 

Tillie,  her  rush  hour  over,  wandered  back  into  the 
kitchen  and  poured  herself  a  cup  of  coffee.  Mrs. 
McKee  was  reweighing  the  meat  order. 

"  Kind  of  a  nice  fellow,"  Tillie  said,  cup  to  lips  — 
"the  new  man." 

"Week  or  meal?" 

33 


"Week.  He'd  be  handsome  if  he  wasn't  so 
grouchy-looking.  Lit  up  some  when  Mr.  Wagner  sent 
him  one  of  his  love  letters.  Rooms  over  at  Pages'." 

Mrs.  McKee  drew  a  long  breath  and  entered  the 
lamb  stew  in  a  book. 

"When  I  think  of  Anna  Page  taking  a  roomer,  it 
just  about  knocks  me  over,  Tillie.  And  where  they  '11 
put  him,  in  that  little  house  —  he  looked  thin,  what 
I  saw  of  him.  Seven  pounds  and  a  quarter."  This 
last  referred,  not  to  K.  Le  Moyne,  of  course,  but  to 
the  lamb  stew. 

"Thin  as  a  fiddle-string." 

"Just  keep  an  eye  on  him,  that  he  gets  enough." 
Then,  rather  ashamed  of  her  unbusinesslike  meth- 
ods :  "  A  thin  mealer  's  a  poor  advertisement.  Do  you 
suppose  this  is  the  dog  meat  or  the  soup  scraps?" 

Tillie  was  a  niece  of  Mrs.  Rosenfeld.  In  such 
manner  was  most  of  the  Street  and  its  environs  con- 
nected ;  in  such  wise  did  its  small  gossip  start  at  one 
end  and  pursue  its  course  down  one  side  and  up  the 
other. 

"Sidney  Page  is  engaged  to  Joe  Drummond,"  an- 
nounced Tillie.  "He  sent  her  a  lot  of  pink  roses 
yesterday." 

There  was  no  malice  in  her  flat  statement,  no  envy. 
Sidney  and  she,  living  in  the  world  of  the  Street,  oc- 
cupied different  spheres.  But  the  very  lifelessness  in 
her  voice  told  how  remotely  such  things  touched  her, 
and  thus  was  tragic.  "Mealers"  came  and  went  — 

34 


small  clerks,  petty  tradesmen,  husbands  living  alone 
in  darkened  houses  during  the  summer  hegira  of 
wives.  Various  and  catholic  was  Tillie's  male  ac- 
quaintance, but  compounded  of  good  fellowship 
only.  Once,  years  before,  romance  had  paraded  it- 
self before  her  in  the  garb  of  a  traveling  nurseryman 
—  had  walked  by  and  not  come  back. 

"And  Miss  Harriet's  going  into  business  for  her- 
self. She's  taken  rooms  downtown;  she's  going  to 
be  Madame  Something  or  other." 

Now,  at  last,  was  Mrs.  McKee's  attention  caught, 
riveted. 

4 ' For  the  love  of  mercy!  At  her  age!  It's  down- 
right selfish.  If  she  raises  her  prices  she  can't  make 
my  new  foulard." 

Tillie  sat  at  the  table,  her  faded  blue  eyes  fixed  on 
the  back  yard,  where  her  aunt,  Mrs.  Rosenfeld,  was 
hanging  out  the  week's  wash  of  table  linen. 

"I  don't  know  as  it's  so  selfish,"  she  reflected. 
"We've  only  got  one  life.  I  guess  a  body's  got  the 
right  to  live  it." 

Mrs.  McKee  eyed  her  suspiciously,  but  Tillie's 
face  showed  no  emotion. 

"  You  don't  ever  hear  of  Schwitter,  do  you?" 

"No;  I  guess  she's  still  living." 

Schwitter,  the  nurseryman,  had  proved  to  have  a 
wife  in  an  insane  asylum.  That  was  why  Tillie's 
romance  had  only  paraded  itself  before  her  and  had 
gone  by. 

11  You  got  out  of  that  lucky." 

35 


Tillie  rose  and  tied  a  gingham  apron  over  her 
white  one. 

"  I  guess  so.  Only  sometimes  — " 

"Tillie!" 

"I  don't  know  as  it  would  have  been  so  wrong. 
He  ain't  young,  and  I  ain't.  And  we're  not  getting 
any  younger.  He  had  nice  manners;  he'd  have  been 
good  to  me." 

Mrs.  McKee's  voice  failed  her.  For  a  moment  she 
gasped  like  a  fish.  Then :  — 

"And  him  a  married  man!" 

"Well,  I  'm  not  going  to  do  it,"  Tillie  soothed  her. 
"I  get  to  thinking  about  it  sometimes;  that's  all. 
This  new  fellow  made  me  think  of  him.  He  's  got 
the  same  nice  way  about  him." 

Aye,  the  new  man  had  made  her  think  of  him,  and 
June,  and  the  lovers  who  lounged  along  the  Street 
in  the  moonlit  avenues  toward  the  park  and  love; 
even  Sidney's  pink  roses.  Change  was  in  the  very 
air  of  the  Street  that  June  morning.  It  was  in  Tillie, 
making  a  last  clutch  at  youth,  and  finding,  in  this 
pale  flare  of  dying  passion,  courage  to  remember 
what  she  had  schooled  herself  to  forget;  in  Harriet, 
asserting  her  right  to  live  her  life;  in  Sidney,  plan- 
ning with  eager  eyes  a  life  of  service  which  did  not 
include  Joe;  in  K.  Le  Moyne,  who  had  built  up  a 
wall  between  himself  and  the  world,  and  was  seeing 
it  demolished  by  a  deaf-and-dumb  book  agent  whose 
weapon  was  a  pencil  pad ! 

36 


And  yet,  for  a  week  nothing  happened.  Joe  came 
in  the  evenings  and  sat  on  the  steps  with  Sidney,  his 
honest  heart  in  his  eyes.  She  could  not  bring  herself 
at  first  to  tell  him  about  the  hospital.  She  put  it  off 
from  day  to  day.  Anna,  no  longer  sulky,  accepted 
with  childlike  faith  Sidney's  statement  that  "they'd 
get  along;  she  had  a  splendid  scheme,"  and  took  to 
helping  Harriet  in  her  preparations  for  leaving. 
Tillie,  afraid  of  her  rebellious  spirit,  went  to  prayer 
meeting.  And  K.  Le  Moyne,  finding  his  little  room 
hot  in  the  evenings  and  not  wishing  to  intrude  on  the 
two  on  the  doorstep,  took  to  reading  his  paper  in 
the  park,  and  after  twilight  to  long,  rapid  walks  out 
into  the  country.  The  walks  satisfied  the  craving 
of  his  active  body  for  exercise,  and  tired  him  so  he 
could  sleep.  On  one  such  occasion  he  met  Mr.  Wag- 
ner, and  they  carried  on  an  animated  conversation 
until  it  was  too  dark  to  see  the.  pad.  Even  then,  it 
developed  that  Mr.  Wagner  could  write  in  the  dark; 
and  he  secured  the  last  word  in  a  long  argument  by 
doing  this  and  striking  a  match  for  K.  to  read  by. 

When  K.  was  sure  that  the  boy  had  gone,  he  would 
turn  back  toward  the  Street.  Some  of  the  heaviness 
of  his  spirit  always  left  him  at  sight  of  the  little  house* 
Its  kindly  atmosphere  seemed  to  reach  out  and  en- 
velop him.  Within  was  order  and  quiet,  the  fresh- 
ness of  his  turned-down  bed,  the  tidiness  of  his 
ordered  garments.  There  was  even  affection  —  Reg- 
inald, waiting  on  the  fender  for  his  supper,  and  re- 
garding him  with  wary  and  bright-eyed  friendliness. 

37 


Life,  that  had  seemed  so  simple,  had  grown  very 
complicated  for  Sidney.  There  was  her  mother  to 
break  the  news  to,  and  Joe.  Harriet  would  approve, 
she  felt ;  but  these  others !  To  assure  Anna  that  she 
must  manage  alone  for  three  years,  in  order  to  be 
happy  and  comfortable  afterward  —  that  was  hard 
enough.  But  to  tell  Joe  that  she  was  planning  a  fu- 
ture without  him,  to  destroy  the  light  in  his  blue  eyes 
—  that  hurt. 

After  all,  Sidney  told  K.  first.  One  Friday  even- 
ing, coming  home  late  as  usual,  he  found  her  on  the 
doorstep,  and  Joe  gone.  She  moved  over  hospitably. 
The  moon  had  waxed  and  waned,  and  the  Street  was 
dark.  Even  the  ailanthus  blossoms  had  ceased  their 
snow-like  dropping.  The  colored  man  who  drove  Dr. 
Ed  in  the  old  buggy  on  his  daily  rounds  had  brought 
out  the  hose  and  sprinkled  the  street.  Within  this 
zone  of  freshness,  of  wet  asphalt  and  dripping  gut- 
ters, Sidney  sat,  cool  and  silent. 

"Please  sit  down.  It  is  cool  now.  My  idea  of 
luxury  is  to  have  the  Street  sprinkled  on  a  hot 
night." 

K.  disposed  of  his  long  legs  on  the  steps.  He  was 
trying  to  fit  his  own  ideas  of  luxury  to  a  garden  hose 
and  a  city  street. 

"  I  'm  afraid  you're  working  too  hard." 

11 1?  I  do  a  minimum  of  labor  for  a  minimum  of 
wage." 

"But  you  work  at  night,  don't  you?" 

38 


K.  was  natively  honest.   He  hesitated.  Then:  — 

"No,  Miss  Page." 

"But  you  go  out  every  evening!"  Suddenly  the 
truth  burst  on  her. 

"Oh,  dear!"  she  said.  "  I  do  believe  —  why,  how 
silly  of  you!" 

K.  was  most  uncomfortable. 

"Really,  I  like  it,"  he  protested.  "I  hang  over  a 
desk  all  day,  and  in  the  evening  I  want  to  walk.  I 
ramble  around  the  park  and  see  lovers  on  benches  — 
it's  rather  thrilling.  They  sit  on  the  same  benches 
evening  after  evening.  I  know  a  lot  of  them  by  sight, 
and  if  they  're  not  there  I  wonder  if  they  have  quar- 
reled, or  if  they  have  finally  got  married  and  ended 
the  romance.  You  can  see  how  exciting  it  is." 

Quite  suddenly  Sidney  laughed. 

"How  very  nice  you  are!"  she  said  —  "and  how 
absurd !  Why  should  their  getting  married  end  the 
romance?  And  don't  you  know  that,  if  you  insist  on 
walking  the  streets  and  parks  at  night  because  Joe 
Drummond  is  here,  I  shall  have  to  tell  him  not  to 
come?" 

This  did  not  follow,  to  K.'s  mind.  They  had 
rather  a  heated  argument  over  it,  and  became  much 
better  acquainted. 

"If  I  were  engaged  to  him,"  Sidney  ended,  her 
cheeks  very  pink,  "I  —  I  might  understand.  But, 
as  I  am  not  — " 

"Ah I"  said  K.,  a  trifle  unsteadily.  "So  you  are 
not?" 

39 


Only  a  week  —  and  love  was  one  of  the  things  he 
had  had  to  give  up,  with  others.  Not,  of  course,  that 
he  was  in  love  with  Sidney  then.  But  he  had  been 
desperately  lonely,  and,  for  all  her  practical  clear- 
headedness, she  was  softly  and  appealingly  feminine. 
By  way  of  keeping  his  head,  he  talked  suddenly  and 
earnestly  of  Mrs.  McKee,  and  food,  and  Tillie,  and 
of  Mr.  Wagner  and  the  pencil  pad. 

''It's  like  a  game,"  he  said.  "We  disagree  on 
everything,  especially  Mexico.  If  you  ever  tried  to 
spell  those  Mexican  names  — " 

"Why  did  you  think  I  was  engaged?  "  she  insisted. 

Now,  in  K.'s  walk  of  life  —  that  walk  of  life  where 
there  are  no  toothpicks,  and  no  one  would  have  be- 
lieved that  twenty-one  meals  could  have  been  se- 
cured for  five  dollars  with  a  ticket  punch  thrown  in 
—  young  girls  did  not  receive  the  attention  of  one 
young  man  to  the  exclusion  of  others  unless  they 
were  engaged.  But  he  could  hardly  say  that. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Those  things  get  in  the  air. 
I  am  quite  certain,  for  instance,  that  Reginald  sus- 
pects it." 

"It's  Johnny  Rosenfeld,"  said  Sidney,  with  de- 
cision.  "It's  horrible,  the  way  things  get  about. 
Because  Joe  sent  me  a  box  of  roses  —  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  I'm  not  engaged,  or  going  to  be,  Mr.  Le 
Moyne.  I'm  going  into  a  hospital  to  be  a  nurse." 

Le  Moyne  said  nothing.  For  just  a  moment  he 
closed  his  eyes.  A  man  is  in  rather  a  bad  way  when, 
every  time  he  closes  his  eyes,  he  sees  the  same  thing, 

40 


especially  if  it  is  rather  terrible.  When  it  gets  to  a 
point  where  he  lies  awake  at  night  and  reads,  for  fear 
of  closing  them  — 

"You're  too  young,  are  n't  you?" 

"Dr.  Ed  —  one  of  the  Wilsons  across  the  Street 
—  is  going  to  help  me  about  that.  His  brother  Max 
is  a  big  surgeon  there.  I  expect  you  Ve  heard  of  him. 
We're  very  proud  of  him  in  the  Street." 

Lucky  for  K.  Le  Moyne  that  the  moon  no  longer 
shone  on  the  low  gray  doorstep,  that  Sidney's  mind 
had  traveled  far  away  to  shining  floors  and  rows  of 
white  beds.  "Life  —  in  the  raw,"  Dr.  Ed  had  said 
that  other  afternoon.  Closer  to  her  than  the  hospital 
was  life  in  the  raw  that  night. 

So,  even  here,  on  this  quiet  street  in  this  distant 
city,  there  was  to  be  no  peace.  Max  Wilson  just 
across  the  way!  It  —  it  was  ironic.  Was  there  no 
place  where  a  man  could  lose  himself?  He  would 
have  to  move  on  again,  of  course. 

But  that,  it  seemed,  was  just  what  he  could  not 
do.  For:  — 

"I  want  to  ask  you  to  do  something,  and  I  hope 
you'll  be  quite  frank,"  said  Sidney. 

"Anything  that  I  can  do  — " 

"It's  this.  If  you  are  comfortable,  and  —  and 
like  the  room  and  all  that,  I  wish  you'd  stay."  She 
hurried  on:  "If  I  could  feel  that  mother  had  a  de- 
pendable person  like  you  in  the  house,  it  would  all 
be  easier." 


Dependable !  That  stung. 

4 'But  —  forgive  my  asking;  I'm  really  interested 
• —  can  your  mother  manage?  You'll  get  practically 
no  money  during  your  training." 

"I've  thought  of  that.  A  friend  of  mine,  Chris- 
tine Lorenz,  is  going  to  be  married.  Her  people  are 
wealthy,  but  she'll  have  nothing  but  what  Palmer 
makes.  She  'd  like  to  have  the  parlor  and  the  sitting- 
room  behind.  They  would  n't  interfere  with  you  at 
all,"  she  added  hastily.  "Christine's  father  would 
build  a  little  balcony  at  the  side  for  them,  a  sort  of 
porch,  and  they'd  sit  there  in  the  evenings." 

Behind  Sidney's  carefully  practical  tone  the  man 
read  appeal.  Never  before  had  he  realized  how  nar- 
row the  girl's  world  had  been.  The  Street,  with  but 
one  dimension,  bounded  it!  In  her  perplexity  she 
was  appealing  to  him  who  was  practically  a  stranger. 

And  he  knew  then  that  he  must  do  the  thing  she 
asked.  He,  who  had  fled  so  long,  could  roam  no 
more.  Here  on  the  Street,  with  its  menace  just 
across,  he  must  live,  that  she  might  work.  In  his 
world,  men  had  worked  that  women  might  live  in 
certain  places,  certain  ways.  This  girl  wras  going 
out  to  earn  her  living,  and  he  would  stay  to  make  it 
possible.  But  no  hint  of  all  this  was  in  his  voice. 

"I  shall  stay,  of  course,"  he  said  gravely.  "I  — 
this  is  the  nearest  thing  to  home  that  I've  known 
for  a  long  time.  I  want  you  to  know  that." 

So  they  moved  their  puppets  about,  Anna  and 


Harriet,  Christine  and  her  husband-to-be,  Dr.  Ed, 
even  Tillie  and  the  Rosenfelds;  shifted  and  placed 
them,  and,  planning,  obeyed  inevitable  law. 

"Christine  shall  come,  then,"  said  Sidney  for- 
sooth, "and  we  will  throw  out  a  balcony." 

So  they  planned,  calmly  ignorant  that  poor  Chris- 
tine's story  and  Tillie's  and  Johnny  Rosenfeld's  and 
all  the  others'  were  already  written  among  the  things 
that  are,  and  the  things  that  shall  be  hereafter. 

"You  are  very  good  to  me,"  said  Sidney. 

When  she  rose,  K.  Le  Moyne  sprang  to  his  feet. 

Anna  had  noticed  that  he  always  rose  when  she 
entered  his  room,  —  with  fresh  towels  on  Katie's 
day  out,  for  instance,  —  and  she  liked  him  for  it. 
Years  ago,  the  men  she  had  known  had  shown  this 
courtesy  to  their  women;  but  the  Street  regarded 
such  things  as  affectation. 

"  I  wonder  if  you  would  do  me  another  favor?  I  'm 
afraid  you'll  take  to  avoiding  me,  if  I  keep  on." 

"I  don't  think  you  need  fear  that." 

"This  stupid  story  about  Joe  Drummond  —  I'm 
not  saying  I  '11  never  marry  him,  but  I  'm  certainly 
not  engaged.  Now  and  then,  when  you  are  taking 
your  evening  walks,  if  you  would  ask  me  to  walk 
with  you  — " 

K.  looked  rather  dazed. 

"I  can't  imagine  anything  pleasanter;  but  I  wish 
you  'd  explain  just  how  — " 

Sidney  smiled  at  him.  As  he  stood  on  the  lowest 
step,  their  eyes  were  almost  level. 

43 


11  If  I  walk  with  you,  they  '11  know  I  'm  not  engaged 
to  Joe,"  she  said,  with  engaging  directness. 

The  house  was  quiet.  He  waited  in  the  lower  hall 
until  she  had  reached  the  top  of  the  staircase.  For 
some  curious  reason,  in  the  time  to  come,  that  was 
the  way  Sidney  always  remembered  K.  Le  Moyne  — 
standing  in  the  little  hall,  one  hand  upstretched  to 
shut  off  the  gas  overhead,  and  his  eyes  on  hers  above. 

"  Good-night,"  said  K.  Le  Moyne.  And  all  the 
things  he  had  put  out  of  his  life  were  in  his  voice. 


CHAPTER  IV 

ON  the  morning  after  Sidney  had  invited  K.  Le 
Moyne  to  take  her  to  walk,  Max  Wilson  came  down 
to  breakfast  rather  late.  Dr.  Ed  had  breakfasted  an 
hour  before,  and  had  already  attended,  with  much 
profanity  on  the  part  of  the  patient,  to  a  boil  on  the 
back  of  Mr.  Rosenf eld's  neck. 

"  Better  change  your  laundry, "  cheerfully  advised 
Dr.  Ed,  cutting  a  strip  of  adhesive  plaster.  "Your 
neck's  irritated  from  your  white  collars." 

Rosenfeld  eyed  him  suspiciously,  but,  possessing 
a  sense  of  humor  also,  he  grinned. 

"  It  ain't  my  everyday  things  that  bother  me,"  he 
replied.  "  It's  my  blankety-blank  dress  suit.  But  if 
a  man  wants  to  be  tony  — " 

"Tony  "  was  not  of  the  Street,  but  of  its  environs. 
Harriet  was  "tony"  because  she  walked  with  her 
elbows  in  and  her  head  up.  Dr.  Max  was  "tony" 
because  he  breakfasted  late,  and  had  a  man  come 
once  a  week  and  take  away  his  clothes  to  be  pressed. 
He  was  "tony,"  too,  because  he  had  brought  back 
from  Europe  narrow-shouldered  English-cut  clothes, 
when  the  Street  was  still  padding  its  shoulders.  Even 
K.  would  have  been  classed  with  these  others,  for 
the  stick  that  he  carried  on  his  walks,  for  the  fact 
that  his  shabby  gray  coat  was  as  unmistakably 

45 


foreign  in  cut  as  Dr.  Max's,  had  the  neighborhood  so 
much  as  known  him  by  sight.  But  K.,  so  far,  had 
remained  in  humble  obscurity,  and,  outside  of  Mrs. 
McKee's,  was  known  only  as  the  Pages'  roomer. 

Mr.  Roserifeld  buttoned  up  the  blue  flannel  shirt 
which,  with  a  pair  of  Dr.  Ed's  cast-off  trousers,  was 
his  only  wear,  and  fished  in  his  pocket. 

"How  much,  Doc?" 

"Two  dollars,"  said  Dr.  Ed  briskly. 

"Holy  cats!  For  one  jab  of  a  knife!  My  old 
woman  works  a  day  and  a  half  for  two  dollars." 

" I  guess  it's  worth  two  dollars  to  you  to  be  able 
to  sleep  on  your  back."  He  was  imperturbably 
straightening  his  small  glass  table.  He  knew  Rosen- 
feld.  "If  you  don't  like  my  price,  I'll  lend  you  the 
knife  the  next  time,  and  you  can  let  your  wife  attend 
to  you." 

Rosenfeld  drew  out  a  silver  dollar,  and  followed 
it  reluctantly  with  a  limp  and  dejected  dollar  bill. 

"There  are  times,"  he  said,  "when,  if  you'd  put 
me  and  the  missus  and  a  knife  in  the  same  room,  you 
would  n't  have  much  left  but  the  knife." 

Dr.  Ed  waited  until  he  had  made  his  stiff-necked 
exit.  Then  he  took  the  two  dollars,  and,  putting  the 
money  into  an  envelope,  indorsed  it  in  his  illegible 
hand.  He  heard  his  brother's  step  on  the  stairs,  and 
Dr.  Ed  made  haste  to  put  away  the  last  vestiges  of 
his  little  operation. 

Ed's  lapses  from  surgical  cleanliness  were  a  sore 
trial  to  the  younger  man,  fresh  from  the  clinics  of 

46 


Europe.  In  his  downtown  office,  to  which  he  would 
presently  make  his  leisurely  progress,  he  wore  a 
white  coat,  and  sterilized  things  of  which  Dr.  Ed  did 
not  even  know  the  names. 

So,  as  he  came  down  the  stairs,  Dr.  Ed,  who  had 
wiped  his  tiny  knife  with  a  bit  of  cotton,  —  he  hated 
sterilizing  it ;  it  spoiled  the  edge,  —  thrust  it  hastily 
into  his  pocket.  He  had  cut  boils  without  boiling 
anything  for  a  good  many  years,  and  no  trouble. 
But  he  was  wise  with  the  wisdom  of  the  serpent  and 
the  general  practitioner,  and  there  was  no  use  rais- 
ing a  discussion. 

Max's  morning  mood  was  always  a  cheerful  one. 
Now  and  then  the  way  of  the  transgressor  is  dis- 
gustingly pleasant.  Max,  who  sat  up  until  all  hours 
of  the  night,  drinking  beer  or  whiskey-and-soda,  and 
playing  bridge,  wakened  to  a  clean  tongue  and-a 
tendency  to  have  a  cigarette  between  shoes,  so  to 
speak.  Ed,  whose  wildest  dissipation  had  perhaps 
been  to  bring  into  the  world  one  of  the  neighbor- 
hood's babies,  wakened  customarily  to  the  dark 
hour  of  his  day,  when  he  dubbed  himself  failure 
and  loathed  the  Street  with  a  deadly  loathing. 

So  now  Max  brought  his  handsome  self  down  the 
staircase  and  paused  at  the  office  door. 

"At  it  already,"  he  said.  "Or  have  you  been  to 
bed?" 

"It's  after  nine,"  protested  Ed  mildly.  "If  I 
don't  start  early,  I  never  get  through." 

Max  yawned. 

47 


" Better  come  with  me,"  he  said.  "If  things  go  on 
as  they  've  been  doing,  I  '11  have  to  have  an  assistant. 
I'd  rather  have  you  than  anybody,  of  course."  He 
put  his  lithe  surgeon's  hand  on  his  brother's  shoulder. 
"Where  would  I  be  if  it  had  n't  been  for  you?  All 
the  fellows  know  what  you've  done." 

In  spite  of  himself,  Ed  winced.  It  was  one  thing 
to  work  hard  that  there  might  be  one  success  instead 
of  two  half  successes.  It  was  a  different  thing  to  ad- 
vertise one's  mediocrity  to  the  world.  His  sphere  of 
the  Street  and  the  neighborhood  was  his  own.  To 
give  it  all  up  and  become  his  younger  brother's  as- 
sistant —  even  if  it  meant,  as  it  would,  better  hours 
and  more  money  —  would  be  to  submerge  his  iden- 
tity. He  could  not  bring  himself  to  it. 

"I  guess  I'll  stay  where  I  am,"  he  said.  "They 
know  me  around  here,  and  I  know  them.  By  the  way, 
will  you  leave  this  envelope  at  Mrs.  McKee's?  Mag- 
gie Rosenfeld  is  ironing  there  to-day.  It's  for  her." 

Max  took  the  envelope  absently. 

"You'll  go  on  here  to  the  end  of  your  days,  work- 
ing for  a  pittance,"  he  objected.  "Inside  of  ten 
years  there  '11  be  no  general  practitioners ;  then  where 
will  you  be?" 

"  I'll  manage  somehow,"  said  his  brother  placidly. 
"  I  guess  there  will  always  be  a  few  that  can  pay  my 
prices  better  than  what  you  specialists  ask." 

Max  laughed  with  genuine  amusement. 

"  I  dare  say,  if  this  is  the  way  you  let  them  pay 
your  prices." 

48 


He  held  out  the  envelope,  and  the  older  man 
colored. 

Very  proud  of  Dr.  Max  was  his  brother,  unselfishly 
proud,  of  his  skill,  of  his  handsome  person,  of  his 
easy  good  manners;  very  humble,  too,  of  his  own 
knowledge  and  experience.  If  he  ever  suspected  any 
lack  of  finer  fiber  in  Max,  he  put  the  thought  away. 
Probably  he  was  too  rigid  himself.  Max  was  young, 
a  hard  worker.  He  had  a  right  to  play  hard. 

He  prepared  his  black  bag  for  the  day's  calls  — 
stethoscope,  thermometer,  eye-cup,  bandages,  case 
of  small  vials,  a  lump  of  absorbent  cotton  in  a  not 
over- fresh  towel ;  in  the  bottom,  a  heterogeneous  col- 
lection of  instruments,  a  roll  of  adhesive  plaster,  a 
bottle  or  two  of  sugar-of-milk  tablets  for  the  chil- 
dren, a  dog  collar  that  had  belonged  to  a  dead  collie, 
and  had  got  in  the  bag  in  some  curious  fashion  and 
there  remained. 

He  prepared  the  bag  a  little  nervously,  while  Max 
ate.  He  felt  that  modern  methods  and  the  best 
usage  might  not  have  approved  of  the  bag.  On  his 
way  out  he  paused  at  the  dining-room  door. 

"Are  you  going  to  the  hospital?" 

"Operating  at  four  —  wish  you  could  come  in." 

"I'm  afraid  not,  Max.  I've  promised  Sidney 
Page  to  speak  about  her  to  you.  She  wants  to  enter 
the  training-school." 

"Too  young,"  said  Max  briefly.  "Why,  she  can't 
be  over  sixteen." 

49 


"She's  eighteen." 

"Well,  even  eighteen.  Do  you  think  any  girl  of 
that  age  is  responsible  enough  to  have  life  and  death 
put  in  her  hands?  Besides,  although  I  have  n't 
noticed  her  lately,  she  used  to  be  a  pretty  little 
thing.  There  is  no  use  filling  up  the  wards  with  a  lot 
of  ornaments;  it  keeps  the  internes  all  stewed  up." 

"Since  when,"  asked  Dr.  Ed  mildly,  "have  you 
found  good  looks  in  a  girl  a  handicap  ? ' ' 

In  the  end  they  compromised.  Max  would  see 
Sidney  at  his  office.  It  would  be  better  than  having 
her  run  across  the  Street  —  would  put  things  on  the 
right  footing.  For,  if  he  did  have  her  admitted,  she 
would  have  to  learn  at  once  that  he  was  no  longer 
"Dr.  Max";  that,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  now 
staff,  and  entitled  to  much  dignity,  to  speech  with- 
out contradiction  or  argument,  to  clean  towels,  and 
a  deferential  interne  at  his  elbow. 

Having  given  his  promise,  Max  promptly  forgot 
about  it.  The  Street  did  not  interest  him.  Christine 
and  Sidney  had  been  children  when  he  went  to 
Vienna,  and  since  his  return  he  had  hardly  noticed 
them.  Society,  always  kind  to  single  men  of  good 
appearance  and  easy  good  manners,  had  taken  him 
up.  He  wore  dinner  or  evening  clothes  five  nights 
out  of  seven,  and  was  supposed  by  his  conservative 
old  neighbors  to  be  going  the  pace.  The  rumor  had 
been  fed  by  Mrs.  Rosenfeld,  who,  starting  out  for 
her  day's  washing  at  six  o'clock  one  morning,  had 

50 


found  Dr.  Max's  car,  lamps  lighted  and  engine  go- 
ing, drawn  up  before  the  house  door,  with  its  owner 
asleep  at  the  wheel.  The  story  traveled  the  length 
of  the  Street  that  day. 

"Him,"  said  Mrs.  Rosenfeld,  who  was  occasion- 
ally flowery,  "sittin'  up  as  straight  as  this  wash- 
board, and  his  silk  hat  shinin'  in  the  sun;  but,  ex- 
ceptin'  the  car,  which  was  workin'  hard  and  gettin' 
nowhere,  the  whole  outfit  in  the  arms  of  Morpheus." 

Mrs.  Lorenz,  whose  day  it  was  to  have  Mrs.  Ro- 
senfeld, and  who  was  unfamiliar  with  mythology, 
gasped  at  the  last  word. 

"Mercy!"  she  said.  "Do  you  mean  to  say  he's 
got  that  awful  drug  habit!" 

Down  the  clean  steps  went  Dr.  Max  that  morning, 
a  big  man,  almost  as  tall  as  K.  Le  Moyne,  eager  of 
life,  strong  and  a  bit  reckless,  not  fine,  perhaps,  but 
not  evil.  He  had  the  same  zest  of  living  as  Sidney, 
but  with  this  difference  —  the  girl  stood  ready  to 
give  herself  to  life:  he  knew  that  life  would  come  to 
him.  All-dominating  male  was  Dr.  Max,  that  morn- 
ing, as  he  drew  on  his  gloves  before  stepping  into 
his  car.  It  was  after  nine  o'clock.  K.  Le  Moyne  had 
been  an  hour  at  his  desk.  The  McKee  napkins  lay 
ironed  in  orderly  piles. 

Nevertheless,  Dr.  Max  was  suffering  under  a 
sense  of  defeat  as  he  rode  downtown.  The  night  be- 
fore, he  had  proposed  to  a  girl  and  had  been  rejected. 
He  was  not  in  love  with  the  girl,  —  she  would  have 


been  a  suitable  wife,  and  a  surgeon  ought  to  be 
married ;  it  gives  people  confidence,  —  but  his  pride 
was  hurt.  He  recalled  the  exact  words  of  the  rejec- 
tion. 

"You're  too  good-looking,  Max,"  she  had  said, 
"and  that's  the  truth.  Now  that  operations  are  as 
popular  as  fancy  dancing,  and  much  less  bother, 
half  the  women  I  know  are  crazy  about  their  sur- 
geons. I  'm  too  fond  of  my  peace  of  mind." 

11  But,  good  Heavens!  have  n't  you  any  confidence 
in  me?"  he  had  demanded. 

"None  whatever,  Max  dear."  She  had  looked  at 
him  with  level,  understanding  eyes. 

He  put  the  disagreeable  recollection  out  of  his 
mind  as  he  parked  his  car  and  made  his  way  to  his 
office.  Here  would  be  people  who  believed  in  him, 
from  the  middle-aged  nurse  in  her  prim  uniform  to 
the  row  of  patients  sitting  stiffly  around  the  walls  of 
the  waiting-room.  Dr.  Max,  pausing  in  the  hall 
outside  the  door  of  his  private  office,  drew  a  long 
breath.  This  was  the  real  thing  —  work  and  plenty 
of  it,  a  chance  to  show  the  other  men  what  he  could 
do,  a  battle  to  win !  No  humanitarian  was  he,  but  a 
fighter:  each  day  he  came  to  his  office  with  the  same 
battle  lust. 

The  office  nurse  had  her  back  to  him.  When  she 
turned,  he  faced  an  agreeable  surprise.  Instead  of 
Miss  Simpson,  he  faced  a  young  and  attractive  girl, 
faintly  familiar. 

52 


"We  tried  to  get  you  by  telephone,"  she  explained. 
"I  am  from  the  hospital.  Miss  Simpson's  father 
died  this  morning,  and  she  knew  you  would  have  to 
have  some  one.  I  was  just  starting  for  my  vacation, 
so  they  sent  me." 

"Rather  a  poor  substitute  for  a  vacation,"  he 
commented. 

She  was  a  very  pretty  girl.  He  had  seen  her  before 
in  the  hospital,  but  he  had  never  really  noticed  how 
attractive  she  was.  Rather  stunning  she  was,  he 
thought.  The  combination  of  yellow  hair  and  dark 
eyes  was  unusual.  He  remembered,  just  in  time,  to 
express  regret  at  Miss  Simpson's  bereavement. 

"I  am  Miss  Harrison,"  explained  the  substitute, 
and  held  out  his  long  white  coat.  The  ceremony, 
purely  perfunctory  with  Miss  Simpson  on  duty, 
proved  interesting,  Miss  Harrison,  in  spite  of  her 
high  heels,  being  small  and  the  young  surgeon  tall. 
When  he  was  finally  in  the  coat,  she  was  rather 
flushed  and  palpitating. 

"  But  I  knew  your  name,  of  course,"  lied  Dr.  Max. 
"And  —  I'm  sorry  about  the  vacation." 

After  that  came  work.  Miss  Harrison  was  nimble 
and  alert,  but  the  surgeon  worked  quickly  and  with 
few  words,  was  impatient  when  she  could  not  find 
the  things  he  called  for,  even  broke  into  restrained 
profanity  now  and  then.  She  went  a  little  pale  over 
her  mistakes,  but  preserved  her  dignity  and  her  wits. 
Now  and  then  he  found  her  dark  eyes  fixed  on  him, 
with  something  inscrutable  but  pleasing  in  their 

53 


depths.  The  situation  was  rather  piquant.  Con- 
sciously he  was  thinking  only  of  what  he  was  doing. 
Subconsciously  his  busy  ego  was  finding  solace  after 
last  night's  rebuff. 

Once,  during  the  cleaning  up  between  cases,  he  4 
dropped  to  a  personality.  He  was  drying  his  hands, 
while  she  placed  freshly  sterilized  instruments  on  a 
glass  table. 

"You  are  almost  a  foreign  type,  Miss  Harrison. 
Last  year,  in  a  London  ballet,  I  saw  a  blonde  Spanish 
girl  who  looked  like  you." 

"My  mother  was  a  Spaniard."  She  did  not  look 
up. 

Where  Miss  Simpson  was  in  the  habit  of  clump- 
ing through  the  morning  in  flat,  heavy  shoes,  Miss 
Harrison's  small  heels  beat  a  busy  tattoo  on  the 
tiled  floor.  With  the  rustling  of  her  starched  dress, 
the  sound  was  essentially  feminine,  almost  insistent. 
When  he  had  time  to  notice  it,  it  amused  him  that  he 
did  not  find  it  annoying. 

Once,  as  she  passed  him  a  bistoury,  he  deliberately 
placed  his  fine  hand  over  her  fingers  and  smiled  into 
her  eyes.  It  was  play  for  him;  it  lightened  the  day's 
work. 

Sidney  was  in  the  waiting-room.  There  had  been 
no  tedium  in  the  morning's  waiting.  Like  all  im- 
aginative people,  she  had  the  gift  of  dramatizing 
herself.  She  was  seeing  herself  in  white  from  head  to 
foot,  like  this  efficient  young  woman  who  came  now 
and  then  to  the  waiting-room  door;  she  was  healing 

54 


the  sick  and  closing  tired  eyes ;  she  was  even  imagin- 
ing herself  proposed  to  by  an  aged  widower  with 
grown  children  and  quantities  of  money,  one  of  her 
patients. 

She  sat  very  demurely  in  the  waiting-room  with  a 
magazine  in  her  lap,  and  told  her  aged  patient  that 
she  admired  and  respected  him,  but  that  she  had 
given  herself  to  the  suffering  poor. 

"  Everything  in  the  world  that  you  want,"  begged 
the  elderly  gentleman.  "You  should  see  the  world, 
child,  and  I  will  see  it  again  through  your  eyes.  To 
Paris  first  for  clothes  and  the  opera,  and  then  — " 

11  But  I  do  not  love  you,"  Sidney  replied,  mentally 
but  steadily.  "  In  all  the  world  I  love  only  one  man. 
He  is—  " 

She  hesitated  here.  It  certainly  was  not  Joe,  or 
K.  Le  Moyne  of  the  gas  office.  It  seemed  to  her  sud- 
denly very  sad  that  there  was  no  one  she  loved.  So 
many  people  went  into  hospitals  because  they  had 
been  disappointed  in  love. 

"Dr.  Wilson  will  see  you  now." 

She  followed  Miss  Harrison  into  the  consulting- 
room.  Dr.  Max  —  not  the  gloved  and  hatted  Dr. 
Max  of  the  Street,  but  a  new  person,  one  she  had 
never  known  —  stood  in  his  white  office,  tall,  dark- 
eyed,  dark-haired,  competent,  holding  out  his  long, 
immaculate  surgeon's  hand  and  smiling  down  at  her. 

Men,  like  jewels,  require  a  setting.  A  clerk  on  a 
high  stool,  poring  over  a  ledger,  is  not  unimpressive, 

55 


or  a  cook  over  her  stove.  But  place  the  cook  on  the 
stool,  poring  over  the  ledger!  Dr.  Max,  who  had 
lived  all  his  life  on  the  edge  of  Sidney's  horizon,  now, 
by  the  simple  changing  of  her  point  of  view,  loomed 
large  and  magnificent.  Perhaps  he  knew  it.  Cer- 
tainly he  stood  very  erect.  Certainly,  too,  there  was 
considerable  manner  in  the  way  in  which  he  asked 
Miss  Harrison  to  go  out  and  close  the  door  behind 
her. 

Sidney's  heart,  considering  what  was  happening 
to  it,  behaved  very  well. 

"For  goodness'  sake,  Sidney,"  said  Dr.  Max, 
"here  you  are  a  young  lady  and  I've  never  noticed 
it!" 

This,  of  course,  was  not  what  he  had  intended  to 
say,  being  staff  and  all  that.  But  Sidney,  visibly 
palpitant,  was  very  pretty,  much  prettier  than  the 
Harrison  girl,  beating  a  tattoo  with  her  heels  in  the 
next  room. 

Dr.  Max,  belonging  to  the  class  of  man  who  settles 
his  tie  every  time  he  sees  an  attractive  woman, 
thrust  his  hands  into  the  pockets  of  his  long  white 
coat  and  surveyed  her  quizzically. 

"Did  Dr.  Ed  tell  you?" 

"Sit  down.  He  said  something  about  the  hospital. 
How's  your  mother  and  Aunt  Harriet?" 

"Very  well  —  that  is,  mother's  never  quite  well." 
She  was  sitting  forward  on  her  chair,  her  wide  young 
eyes  on  him.  "  Is  that  —  is  your  nurse  from  the  hos- 
pital here?" 


"Yes.  But  she's  not  my  nurse.  She's  a  substi- 
tute." 

"The  uniform  is  so  pretty."  Poor  Sidney!  with 
all  the  things  she  had  meant  to  say  about  a  life  of 
service,  and  that,  although  she  was  young,  she  was 
terribly  in  earnest. 

"It  takes  a  lot  of  plugging  before  one  gets  the 
uniform.  Look  here,  Sidney;  if  you  are  going  to  the 
hospital  because  of  the  uniform,  and  with  any  idea 
of  soothing  fevered  brows  and  all  that  nonsense  — " 

She  interrupted  him,  deeply  flushed.  Indeed,  no. 
She  wanted  to  work.  She  was  young  and  strong,  and 
surely  a  pair  of  willing  hands  —  that  was  absurd 
about  the  uniform.  She  had  no  silly  ideas.  There 
was  so  much  to  do  in  the  world,  and  she  wanted  to 
help.  Some  people  could  give  money,  but  she  could 
n't.  She  could  only  offer  service.  And,  partly  through 
earnestness  and  partly  through  excitement,  she 
ended  in  a  sort  of  nervous  sob,  and,  going  to  the 
window,  stood  with  her  back  to  him. 

He  followed  her,  and,  because  they  were  old 
neighbors,  she  did  not  resent  it  when  he  put  his  hand 
on  her  shoulder. 

"I  don't  know  —  of  course,  if  you  feel  like  that 
about  it,"  he  said,  "we'll  see  what  can  be  done.  It's 
hard  work,  and  a  good  many  times  it  seems  futile. 
They  die,  you  know,  in  spite  of  all  we  can  do.  And 
there  are  many  things  that  are  worse  than  death  —  " 

His  voice  trailed  off.  When  he  had  started  out  in 
his  profession,  he  had  had  some  such  ideal  of  service 

57 


as  this  girl  beside  him.  For  just  a  moment,  as  he 
stood  there  close  to  her,  he  saw  things  again  with 
the  eyes  of  his  young  faith:  to  relieve  pain,  to 
straighten  the  crooked,  to  hurt  that  he  might  heal, — 
not  to  show  the  other  men  what  he  could  do,  —  that 
had  been  his  early  creed.  He  sighed  a  little  as  he 
turned  away. 

"I'll  speak  to  the  superintendent  about  you,"  he 
said.   "  Perhaps  you'd  like  me  to  show  you  around  a 
little." 
."When?  To-day?" 

He  had  meant  in  a  month,  or  a  year.  It  was  quite 
a  minute  before  he  replied :  — 

"Yes,  to-day,  if  you  say.   I'm  operating  at  four. 
How  about  three  o'clock?" 

She  held  out  both  hands,  and  he  took  them,  smil- 
ing. 

"You  are  the  kindest  person  I  ever  met." 

"And  —  perhaps  you'd  better  not  say  you  are 
applying  until  we  find  out  if  there  is  a  vacancy." 

"May  I  tell  one  person?" 

"Mother?" 

"No.   We  —  we  have  a  roomer  now.   He  is  very 
much  interested.   I  should  like  to  tell  him." 

He  dropped  her  hands  and  looked  at  her  in  mock 
severity. 

"Much  interested!  Is  he  in  love  with  you?" 

"Mercy,  no!" 

"  I  don't  believe  it.   I  'm  jealous.  You  know,  I  Ve 
always  been  more  than  half  in  love  with  you  myself!" 


Play  for  him  —  the  same  victorious  instinct  that 
had  made  him  touch  Miss  Harrison's  fingers  as  she 
gave  him  the  instrument.  And  Sidney  knew  how  it 
was  meant ;  she  smiled  into  his  eyes  and  drew  down 
her  veil  briskly. 

"Then  we'll  say  at  three,"  she  said  calmly,  and 
took  an  orderly  and  unflurried  departure. 

But  the  little  seed  of  tenderness  had  taken  root. 
Sidney,  passing  in  the  last  week  or  two  from  girlhood 
to  womanhood,  —  outgrowing  Joe,  had  she  only 
known  it,  as  she  had  outgrown  the  Street,  —  had 
come  that  day  into  her  first  contact  with  a  man  of 
the  world.  True,  there  was  K.  Le  Moyne.  But  K. 
was  now  of  the  Street,  of  that  small  world  of  one 
dimension  that  she  was  leaving  behind  her. 

She  sent  him  a  note  at  noon,  with  word  to  Tillie  at 
Mrs.  McKee's  to  put  it  under  his  plate:  — 

DEAR  MR.  LE  MOYNE,  —  I  am  so  excited  I  can 
hardly  write.  Dr.  Wilson,  the  surgeon,  is  going  to 
take  me  through  the  hospital  this  afternoon.  Wish 
me  luck. 

SIDNEY  PAGE. 

K.  read  it,  and,  perhaps  because  the  day  was  hot 
and  his  butter  soft  and  the  other  "  mealers  "  irritable 
with  the  heat,  he  ate  little  or  no  luncheon.  Before 
he  went  out  into  the  sun,  he  read  the  note  again. 
To  his  jealous  eyes  came  a  vision  of  that  excursion 
to  the  hospital.  Sidney,  all  vibrant  eagerness,  lumi- 

59 


nous  of  eye,  quick  of  bosom ;  and  Wilson,  sardoni* 
cally  smiling,  amused  and  interested  in  spite  of 
himself.  He  drew  a  long  breath,  and  thrust  the  note 
in  his  pocket. 

The  little  house  across  the  way  sat  square  in  the 
sun.  The  shades  of  his  windows  had  been  lowered 
against  the  heat.  K.  Le  Moyne  made  an  impulsive 
movement  toward  it,  and  checked  himself. 

As  he  went  down  the  Street,  Wilson's  car  came 
around  the  corner.  Le  Moyne  moved  quietly  into 
the  shadow  of  the  church  and  watched  the  car  go  by. 


CHAPTER  V 

SIDNEY  and  K.  Le  Moyne  sat  under  a  tree  and 
talked.  In  Sidney's  lap  lay  a  small  pasteboard  box, 
punched  with  many  holes.  It  was  the  day  of  releas- 
ing Reginald,  but  she  had  not  yet  been  able  to  bring 
herself  to  the  point  of  separation.  Now  and  then  a 
furry  nose  protruded  from  one  of  the  apertures  and 
sniffed  the  welcome  scent  of  pine  and  buttonball,  red 
and  white  clover,  the  thousand  spicy  odors  of  field 
and  woodland. 

"And  so,"  said  K.  Le  Moyne,  "you  liked  it  all? 
It  didn't  startle  you?" 

"Well,  in  one  way,  of  course  —  you  see,  I  did  n't 
know  it  was  quite  like  that:  all  order  and  peace  and 
quiet,  and  white  beds  and  whispers,  on  top,  —  you 
know  what  I  mean,  —  and  the  misery  there  just  the 
same.  Have  you  ever  gone  through  a  hospital?" 

K.  Le  Moyne  was  stretched  out  on  the  grass,  his 
arms  under  his  head.  For  this  excursion  to  the  end 
of  the  street-car  line  he  had  donned  a  pair  of  white 
flannel  trousers  and  a  belted  Norfolk  coat.  Sidney 
had  been  divided  between  pride  in  his  appearance  and 
fear  that  the  Street  would  deem  him  overdressed. 

At  her  question  he  closed  his  eyes,  shutting  out 
the  peaceful  arch  and  the  bit  of  blue  heaven  over- 
head. He  did  not  reply  at  once. 

61 


"Good  gracious,  I  believe  he's  asleep!"  said  Sid- 
ney to  the  pasteboard  box. 

But  he  opened  his  eyes  and  smiled  at  her. 

"I've  been  around  hospitals  a  little.  I  suppose 
now  there  is  no  question  about  your  going?" 

"The  superintendent  said  I  was  young,  but  that 
any  protegee  of  Dr.  Wilson's  would  certainly  be 
given  a  chance." 

"It  is  hard  work,  night  and  day." 

"Do  you  think  I  am  afraid  of  work?" 

"And  — Joe?" 

Sidney  colored  vigorously  and  sat  erect. 

"He  is  very  silly.  He's  taken  all  sorts  of  idiotic 
notions  in  his  head." 

"Such  as—  " 

"Well,  he  hates  the  hospital,  of  course.  As  if,  even 
if  I  meant  to  marry  him,  it  would  n't  be  years  before 
he  can  be  ready." 

"Do  you  think  you  are  quite  fair  to  Joe?" 

"I  have  n't  promised  to  marry  him." 

"But  he  thinks  you  mean  to.  If  you  have  quite 
made  up  your  mind  not  to,  better  tell  him,  don't  you 
think?  What  —  what  are  these  idiotic  notions?" 

Sidney  considered,  poking  a  slim  finger  into  the 
little  holes  in  the  box. 

"  You  can  see  how  stupid  he  is,  and  —  and  young. 
For  one  thing,  he's  jealous  of  you!" 

"I  see.  Of  course  that  is  silly,  although  your  at- 
titude toward  his  suspicion  is  hardly  flattering  to 
me!" 

62 


He  smiled  up  at  her. 

"  I  told  him  that  I  had  asked  you  to  bring  me  here 
to-day.  He  was  furious.  And  that  was  n't  all." 

"No?" 

"He  said  I  was  flirting  desperately  with  Dr.  Wil- 
son. You  see,  the  day  we  went  through  the  hospital, 
it  was  hot,  and  we  went  to  Henderson's  for  soda- 
water.  And,  of  course,  Joe  was  there.  It  was  really 
dramatic." 

K.  Le  Moyne  was  daily  gaining  the  ability  to  see 
things  from  the  angle  of  the  Street.  A  month  ago  he 
could  have  seen  no  situation  in  two  people,  a  man 
and  a  girl,  drinking  soda-water  together,  even  with  a 
boy  lover  on  the  next  stool.  Now  he  could  view 
things  through  Joe's  tragic  eyes.  And  there  was 
more  than  that.  All  day  he  had  noticed  how  inevit- 
ably the  conversation  turned  to  the  young  surgeon. 
Did  they  start  with  Reginald,  with  the  condition  of 
the  morning-glory  vines,  with  the  proposition  of 
taking  up  the  quaint  paving-stones  and  macadamiz- 
ing the  Street,  they  ended  with  the  younger  Wilson. 

Sidney's  active  young  brain,  turned  inward  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life,  was  still  on  herself. 

"Mother  is  plaintively  resigned  —  and  Aunt 
Harriet  has  been  a  trump.  She's  going  to  keep  her 
room.  It's  really  up  to  you." 

"Tome?" 

"To  your  staying  on.  Mother  trusts  you  abso- 
lutely. I  hope  you  noticed  that  you  got  one  of  the 
apostle  spoons  with  the  custard  she  sent  up  to  you 

63 


the  other  night.  And  she  did  n't  object  to  this  trip 
to-day.  Of  course,  as  she  said  herself,  it  is  n't  as  if 
you  were  young,  or  at  all  wild." 

In  spite  of  himself,  K.  was  rather  startled.  He  felt 
old  enough,  God  knew,  but  he  had  always  thought 
of  it  as  an  age  of  the  spirit.  How  old  did  this  child 
think  he  was? 

"I  have  promised  to  stay  on,  in  the  capacity  of 
watch-dog,  burglar-alarm,  and  occasional  recipient 
of  an  apostle  spoon  in  a  dish  of  custard.  Lightning- 
conductor,  too  —  your  mother  says  she  is  n't  afraid 
of  storms  if  there  is  a  man  in  the  house.  I  '11  stay,  of 
course." 

The  thought  of  his  age  weighed  on  him.  He  rose 
to  his  feet  and  threw  back  his  fine  shoulders. 

"Aunt  Harriet  and  your  mother  and  Christine 
and  her  husband-to-be,  whatever  his  name  is — • 
we'll  be  a  happy  family.  But,  I  warn  you,  if  I 
ever  hear  of  Christine's  husband  getting  an  apostle 
spoon  —  " 

She  smiled  up  at  him.  "You  are  looking  very 
grand  to-day.  But  you  have  grass  stains  on  your 
white  trousers.  Perhaps  Katie  can  take  them  out." 

Quite  suddenly  K.  felt  that  she  thought  him  too 
old  for  such  frivolity  of  dress.  It  put  him  on  his 
mettle. 

"How  old  do  you  think  I  am,  Miss  Sidney?" 

She  considered,  giving  him,  after  her  kindly  way, 
the  benefit  of  the  doubt. 

"Not  over  forty,  I'm  sure." 
64 


"I'm  almost  thirty.  It  is  middle  age,  of  course, 
but  —  it  is  not  senility." 

She  was  genuinely  surprised,  almost  disturbed. 

"Perhaps  we'd  better  not  tell  mother,"  she  said. 
"You  don't  mind  being  thought  older?" 

"Not  at  all." 

Clearly  the  subject  of  his  years  did  not  interest 
her  vitally,  for  she  harked  back  to  the  grass  stains. 

"I'm  afraid  you're  not  saving,  as  you  promised. 
Those  are  new  clothes,  aren't  they?" 

"  No,  indeed.  Bought  years  ago  in  England  —  the 
coat  in  London,  the  trousers  in  Bath,  on  a  motor 
tour.  Cost  something  like  twelve  shillings.  Awfully 
cheap.  They  wear  them  for  cricket." 

That  was  a  wrong  move,  of  course.  Sidney  must 
hear  about  England;  and  she  marveled  politely,  in 
view  of  his  poverty,  about  his  being  there.  Poor  Le 
Moyne  floundered  in  a  sea  of  mendacity,  rose  to  a 
truth  here  and  there,  clutched  at  luncheon,  and 
achieved  safety  at  last. 

"To  think,"  said  Sidney,  "that  you  have  really 
been  across  the  ocean !  I  never  knew  but  one  person 
who  had  been  abroad.  It  is  Dr.  Max  Wilson." 

Back  again  to  Dr.  Max!  Le  Moyne,  unpacking 
sandwiches  from  a  basket,  was  aroused  by  a  sheer 
resentment  to  indiscretion. 

"You  like  this  Wilson  chap  pretty  well,  don't 
you?" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"You  talk  about  him  rather  a  lot." 

II 


This  was  sheer  recklessness,  of  course.  He  ex- 
pected fury,  annihilation.  He  did  not  look  up, 
but  busied  himself  with  the  luncheon.  When  the  si- 
lence grew  oppressive,  he  ventured  to  glance  toward 
her.  She  was  leaning  forward,  her  chin  cupped  in 
her  palms,  staring  out  over  the  valley  that  stretched 
at  their  feet. 

"Don't  speak  to  me  for  a  minute  or  two,"  she 
said.  " I'm  thinking  over  what  you  have  just  said." 

Manlike,  having  raised  the  issue,  K.  would  have 
given  much  to  evade  it.  Not  that  he  had  owned  him- 
self in  love  with  Sidney.  Love  was  not  for  him.  But 
into  his  loneliness  and  despair  the  girl  had  come  like 
a  ray  of  light.  She  typified  that  youth  and  hope  that 
he  had  felt  slipping  away  from  him.  Through  her 
clear  eyes  he  was  beginning  to  see  a  new  world.  Lose 
her  he  must,  and  that  he  knew;  but  not  this  way. 

Down  through  the  valley  ran  a  shallow  river, 
making  noisy  pretensions  to  both  depth  and  fury. 
He  remembered  just  such  a  river  in  the  Tyrol,  with 
this  same  Wilson  on  a  rock,  holding  the  hand  of  a 
pretty  Austrian  girl,  while  he  snapped  the  shutter 
of  a  camera.  He  had  that  picture  somewhere  now; 
but  the  girl  was  dead,  and,  of  the  three,  Wilson  was 
the  only  one  who  had  met  life  and  vanquished  it. 

"  I've  known  him  all  my  life,"  Sidney  said  at  last. 
"You  're  perfectly  right  about  one  thing :  I  talk  about 
him  and  I  think  about  him.  I  'm  being  candid,  be- 
cause what's  the  use  of  being  friends  if  we're  not 
frank?  I  admire  him  —  you'd  have  to  see  him  in 

66 


the  hospital,  with  every  one  deferring  to  him  and  all 
that,  to  understand.  And  when  you  think  of  a  man 
like  that,  who  holds  life  and  death  in  his  hands,  of 
course  you  rather  thrill.  I  —  I  honestly  believe 
that's  all  there  is  to  it." 

"If  that's  the  whole  thing,  that's  hardly  a  mad 
passion."  He  tried  to  smile;  succeeded  faintly. 

"Well,  of  course,  there's  this,  too.  I  know  he'll 
never  look  at  me.  I  '11  be  one  of  forty  nurses ;  indeed, 
for  three  months  I'll  be  only  a  probationer.  He'll 
probably  never  even  remember  I  'm  in  the  hospital 
at  all." 

"  I  see.  Then,  if  you  thought  he  was  in  love  with 
you,  things  would  be  different?" 

"If  I  thought  Dr.  Max  Wilson  was  in  love  with 
me,"  said  Sidney  solemnly,  "I'd  go  out  of  my  head 
with  joy." 

One  of  the  new  qualities  that  K.  Le  Moyne  was 
cultivating  was  of  living  each  day  for  itself.  Having 
no  past  and  no  future,  each  day  was  worth  exactly 
what  it  brought.  He  was  to  look  back  to  this  day 
with  mingled  feelings:  sheer  gladness  at  being  out 
in  the  open  with  Sidney;  the  memory  of  the  shock 
with  which  he  realized  that  she  was,  unknown  to 
herself,  already  in  the  throes  of  a  romantic  attach- 
ment for  Wilson;  and,  long,  long  after,  when  he  had 
gone  down  to  the  depths  with  her  and  saved  her  by 
his  steady  hand,  with  something  of  mirth  for  the 
untoward  happening  that  closed  the  day. 

67 


Sidney  fell  into  the  river. 

They  had  released  Reginald,  released  him  with 
the  tribute  of  a  shamefaced  tear  on  Sidney's  part 
and  a  handful  of  chestnuts  from  K.  The  little 
squirrel  had  squeaked  his  gladness,  and,  tail  erect, 
had  darted  into  the  grass. 

" Ungrateful  little  beast!"  said  Sidney,  and  dried 
her  eyes.  "Do  you  suppose  he'll  ever  think  of  the 
nuts  again,  or  find  them?" 

"He'll  be  all  right,"  K.  replied.  "The  little  beg- 
gar can  take  care  of  himself,  if  only  — " 

"If  only  what?" 

"  If  only  he  is  n't  too  friendly.  He's  apt  to  crawl 
into  the  pockets  of  any  one  who  happens  around." 

She  was  alarmed  at  that.  To  make  up  for  his  in- 
discretion, K.  suggested  a  descent  to  the  river.  She 
accepted  eagerly,  and  he  helped  her  down.  That 
was  another  memory  that  outlasted  the  day  —  her 
small  warm  hand  in  his ;  the  time  she  slipped  and  he 
caught  her;  the  pain  in  her  eyes  at  one  of  his  thought- 
less remarks. 

"I'm  going  to  be  pretty  lonely,"  he  said,  when 
the  had  paused  in  the  descent  and  was  taking  a  stone 
out  of  her  low  shoe.  "  Reginald  gone,  and  you  going  I 
I  shall  hate  to  come  home  at  night."  And  then,  see- 
ing her  wince:  "I've  been  whining  all  day.  For 
Heaven's  sake,  don't  look  like  that.  If  there's  one 
sort  of  man  I  detest  more  than  another,  it 's  a  man 
who  is  sorry  for  himself.  Do  you  suppose  your 
mother  would  object  if  we  stayed  out  here  at  the 

68 


hotel  for  supper?  I've  ordered  a  moon,  orange- 
yellow  and  extra  size." 

"I  should  hate  to  have  anything  ordered  and 
wasted." 

"  Then  we  '11  stay." 

"It's  fearfully  extravagant." 

11  I'll  be  thrifty  as  to  moons  while  you  are  in  the 
hospital." 

So  it  was  settled.  And,  as  it  happened,  Sidney  had 
to  stay,  anyhow.  For,  having  perched  herself  out  in 
the  river  on  a  sugar-loaf  rock,  she  slid,  slowly  but 
with  a  dreadful  inevitability,  into  the  water.  K. 
happened  to  be  looking  in  another  direction.  So  it 
occurred  that  at  one  moment  Sidney  sat  on  a  rock, 
fluffy  white  from  head  to  feet,  entrancingly  pretty, 
and  knowing  it,  and  the  next  she  was  standing  neck 
deep  in  water,  much  too  startled  to  scream,  and  try- 
ing to  be  dignified  under  the  rather  trying  circum- 
stances. K.  had  not  looked  around.  The  splash  had 
been  a  gentle  one. 

"If  you  will  be  good  enough,"  said  Sidney,  with 
her  chin  well  up,  "to  give  me  your  hand  or  a  pole  or 
something  —  because  if  the  river  rises  an  inch  I 
shall  drown." 

To  his  undying  credit,  K.  Le  Moyne  did  not  laugh 
when  he  turned  and  saw  her.  He  went  out  on  the 
sugar-loaf  rock,  and  lifted  her  bodily  up  its  slippery 
sides.  He  had  prodigious  strength,  in  spite  of  hi* 
leanness. 

69 


"Well!"  said  Sidney,  when  they  were  both  on  the 
rock,  carefully  balanced. 

"  Are  you  cold  ?" 

"  Not  a  bit.  But  horribly  unhappy.  I  must  look  a 
sight."  Then,  remembering  her  manners,  as  the 
Street  had  it,  she  said  primly :  — 

"  Thank  you  for  saving  me." 

"There  was  n't  any  danger,  really,  unless  —  un- 
less the  river  had  risen." 

And  then,  suddenly,  he  burst  into  delighted 
laughter,  the  first,  perhaps,  for  months.  He  shook 
with  it,  struggled  at  the  sight  of  her  injured  face  to 
restrain  it,  achieved  finally  a  degree  of  sobriety  by 
fixing  his  eyes  on  the  river-bank. 

"When  you  have  quite  finished,"  said  Sidney 
severely,  "perhaps  you  will  take  me  to  the  hotel.  I 
dare  say  I  shall  have  to  be  washed  and  ironed." 

He  drew  her  cautiously  to  her  feet.  Her  wet  skirts 
clung  to  her;  her  shoes  were  sodden  and  heavy.  She 
clung  to  him  frantically,  her  eyes  on  the  river  below. 
With  the  touch  of  her  hands  the  man's  mirth  died. 
He  held  her  very  carefully,  very  tenderly,  as  one 
holds  something  infinitely  precious. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  same  day  Dr.  Max  operated  at  the  hospital.  It 
was  a  Wilson  day,  the  young  surgeon  having  six 
cases.  One  of  the  innovations  Dr.  Max  had  made 
was  to  change  the  hour  for  major  operations  from 
early  morning  to  mid-afternoon.  He  could  do  as  well 
later  in  the  day,  —  his  nerves  were  steady,  and  un- 
counted numbers  of  cigarettes  did  not  make  his  hand 
shake,  —  and  he  hated  to  get  up  early. 

The  staff  had  fallen  into  the  way  of  attending 
Wilson's  operations.  His  technique  was  good;  but 
technique  alone  never  gets  a  surgeon  anywhere. 
Wilson  was  getting  results.  Even  the  most  jealous 
of  that  most  jealous  of  professions,  surgery,  had  to 
admit  that  he  got  results. 

Operations  were  over  for  the  afternoon.  The  last 
case  had  been  wheeled  out  of  the  elevator.  The  pit  of 
the  operating-room  was  in  disorder  —  towels  every- 
where, tables  of  instruments,  steaming  sterilizers. 
Orderlies  were  going  about,  carrying  out  linens, 
emptying  pans.  At  a  table  two  nurses  were  cleaning 
instruments  and  putting  them  away  in  their  glass 
cases.  Irrigators  were  being  emptied,  sponges  re- 
counted and  checked  off  on  written  lists. 

In  the  midst  of  the  confusion,  Wilson  stood  giving 
last  orders  to  the  interne  at  his  elbow.  As  he  talked 


he  scoured  his  hands  and  arms  with  a  small  brush ; 
bits  of  lather  flew  off  on  to  the  tiled  floor.  His  speech 
was  incisive,  vigorous.  At  the  hospital  they  said  his 
nerves  were  iron;  there  was  no  let-down  after  the 
day's  work.  The  internes  worshiped  and  feared  him. 
He  was  just,  but  without  mercy.  To  be  able  to  work 
like  that,  so  certainly,  with  so  sure  a  touch,  and  to 
look  like  a  Greek  god!  Wilson's  only  rival,  a  gyne- 
cologist named  O'Hara,  got  results,  too;  but  he 
sweated  and  swore  through  his  operations,  was  not 
too  careful  as  to  asepsis,  and  looked  like  a  gorilla. 

The  day  had  been  a  hard  one.  The  operating- 
room  nurses  were  fagged.  Two  or  three  probation- 
ers had  been  sent  to  help  clean  up,  and  a  senior 
nurse.  Wilson's  eyes  caught  the  nurse's  eyes  as  she 
passed  him, 

11  Here,  too,  Miss  Harrison  I"  he  said  gayly.  "Have 
they  set  you  on  my  trail?" 

With  the  eyes  of  the  room  on  her,  the  girl  answered 
primly:  — 

"I'm  to  be  in  your  office  in  the  mornings,  Dr. 
Wilson,  and  anywhere  I  am  needed  in  the  after- 


noons." 


"And  your  vacation?" 

"  I  shall  take  it  when  Miss  Simpson  comes  back." 
Although  he  went  on  at  once  with  his  conversa- 
tion with  the  interne,  he  still  heard  the  click  of  her 
heels  about  the  room.  He  had  not  lost  the  fact  that 
afoe  had  flushed  when  he  spoke  to  her.  The  mischief 
that  was  latent  in  him  came  to  the  surface.  When 

72 


he  had  rinsed  his  hands,  he  followed  her,  carrying 
the  towel  to  where  she  stood  talking  to  the  super- 
intendent of  the  training-school. 

"Thanks  very  much,  Miss  Gregg,"  he  said. 
11  Everything  went  off  nicely." 

"I  was  sorry  about  that  catgut.  We  have  nc 
trouble  with  what  we  prepare  ourselves.  But  with 
so  many  operations  — " 

He  was  in  a  magnanimous  mood.  He  smiled  at 
Miss  Gregg,  who  was  elderly  and  gray,  but  visibly 
his  creature. 

"That's  all  right.  It's  the  first  time,  and  of 
course  it  will  be  the  last." 

"The  sponge  list,  doctor." 

He  glanced  over  it,  noting  accurately  sponges 
prepared,  used,  turned  in.  But  he  missed  no  gesture 
of  the  girl  who  stood  beside  Miss  Gregg. 

"All  right."  He  returned  the  list.  "That  was  a 
mighty  pretty  probationer  I  brought  you  yesterday." 

Two  small  frowning  lines  appeared  between  Miss 
Harrison's  dark  brows.  He  caught  them,  caught 
her  somber  eyes  too,  and  was  amused  and  rather 
stimulated. 

"She  is  very  young." 

"Prefer  'em  young,"  said  Dr.  Max.  "Willing  to 
learn  at  that  age.  You  '11  have  to  watch  her,  though. 
You  '11  have  all  the  internes  buzzing  around,  neglect- 
ing business." 

Miss  Gregg  rather  fluttered.  She  was  divided  be- 
tween her  disapproval  of  internes  at  all  times  and  of 

73 


young  probationers  generally,  and  her  allegiance  to 
the  brilliant  surgeon  whose  word  was  rapidly  becom- 
ing law  in  the  hospital.  When  an  emergency  of  the 
cleaning  up  called  her  away,  doubt  still  in  her  eyes, 
Wilson  was  left  alone  with  Miss  Harrison. 

" Tired?"  He  adopted  the  gentle,  almost  tender 
tone  that  made  most  women  his  slaves. 

"A  little.   It  is  warm." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  this  evening?  Any 
lectures?" 

"Lectures  are  over  for  the  summer.  I  shall  go  to 
prayers,  and  after  that  to  the  roof  for  air." 

There  was  a  note  of  bitterness  in  her  voice.  Under 
the  eyes  of  the  other  nurses,  she  was  carefully  con- 
tained. They  might  have  been  outlining  the  morn- 
ing's work  at  his  office. 

"The  hand  lotion,  please." 

She  brought  it  obediently  and  poured  it  into  his 
cupped  hands.  The  solutions  of  the  operating-room 
played  havoc  with  the  skin:  the  surgeons,  and  es- 
pecially Wilson,  soaked  their  hands  plentifully  with 
a  healing  lotion. 

Over  the  bottle  their  eyes  met  again,  and  this 
time  the  girl  smiled  faintly. 

"  Can't  you  take  a  little  ride  to-night  and  cool  off? 
I  '11  have  the  car  wherever  you  say.  A  ride  and  some 
supper  —  how  does  it  sound  ?  You  could  get  away 
at  seven  —  " 

"  Miss  Gregg  is  coming!" 

With  an  impassive  face,  the  girl  took  the  bottle 

74 


away.  The  workers  of  the  operating-room  surged 
between  them.  An  interne  presented  an  order- 
book  ;  moppers  had  come  in  and  waited  to  clean  the 
tiled  floor.  There  seemed  no  chance  for  Wilson  to 
speak  to  Miss  Harrison  again. 

But  he  was  clever  with  the  guile  of  the  pursuing 
male.  Eyes  of  all  on  him,  he  turned  at  the  door  of 
the  wardrobe-room,  where  he  would  exchange  his 
white  garments  for  street  clothing,  and  spoke  to  her 
over  the  heads  of  a  dozen  nurses. 

"That  patient's  address  that  I  had  forgotten, 
Miss  Harrison,  is  the  corner  of  the  Park  and  Elling- 
ton Avenue." 

"Thank  you/' 

She  played  the  game  well,  was  quite  calm.  He  ad- 
mired her  coolness.  Certainly  she  was  pretty,  and 
certainly,  too,  she  was  interested  in  him.  The  hurt 
to  his  pride  of  a  few  nights  before  was  healed.  He 
went  whistling  into  the  wardrobe-room.  As  he 
turned  he  caught  the  interne's  eye,  and  there  passed 
between  them  a  glance  of  complete  comprehension. 
The  interne  grinned. 

The  room  was  not  empty.  His  brother  was  there, 
listening  to  the  comments  of  O'Hara,  his  friendly 
rival. 

"Good  work,  boy!"  said  O'Hara,  and  clapped  a 
hairy  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "That  last  case  was  a 
wonder.  I  'm  proud  of  you,  and  your  brother  here 
is  indecently  exalted.  It  was  the  Edwardes  method, 
was  n't  it?  I  saw  it  done  at  his  clinic  in  New  York." 

75 


"  Glad  you  liked  it.  Yes.  Edwardes  was  a  pal  of 
mine  in  Berlin.  A  great  surgeon,  too,  poor  old  chap ! " 

"  There  are  n't  three  men  in  the  country  with  the 
nerve  and  the  hand  for  it." 

O'Hara  went  out,  glowing  with  his  own  magna- 
nimity. Deep  in  his  heart  was  a  gnawing  of  envy  — • 
not  for  himself,  but  for  his  work.  These  young  fel- 
lows with  no  family  ties,  who  could  run  over  to 
Europe  and  bring  back  anything  new  that  was  worth 
while,  they  had  it  all  over  the  older  men.  Not  that 
he  would  have  changed  things.  God  forbid ! 

Dr.  Ed  stood  by  and  waited  while  his  brother  got 
into  his  street  clothes.  He  was  rather  silent.  There 
were  many  times  when  he  wished  that  their  mother 
could  have  lived  to  see  how  he  had  carried  out  his 
promise  to  "make  a  man  of  Max."  This  was  one  of 
them.  Not  that  he  took  any  credit  for  Max's  bril- 
liant career  —  but  he  would  have  liked  her  to  know 
that  things  were  going  well.  He  had  a  picture  of  her 
over  his  office  desk.  Sometimes  he  wondered  what 
she  would  think  of  his  own  untidy  methods  com- 
pared with  Max's  extravagant  order  —  of  the  bag, 
for  instance,  with  the  dog's  collar  in  it,  and  other 
things.  On  these  occasions  he  always  determined  to 
clear  out  the  bag. 

"I  guess  I'll  be  getting  along,"  he  said.  "Will 
you  be  home  to  dinner?" 

"  I  think  not.  I  '11  —  I  ?m  going  to  run  out  of  town, 
and  eat  where  it's  cool." 

The  Street  was  notoriously  hot  in  summer.  When 


Dr.  Max  was  newly  home  from  Europe,  and  Dr.  Ed 
was  selling  a  painfully  acquired  bond  or  two  to  fur- 
nish the  new  offices  downtown,  the  brothers  had  oc- 
casionally gone  together,  by  way  of  the  trolley,  to 
the  White  Springs  Hotel  for  supper.  Those  had  been 
gala  days  for  the  older  man.  To  hear  names  that  he 
had  read  with  awe,  and  mispronounced,  most  of  his 
life,  roll  off  Max's  tongue  —  "Old  Steinmetz"  and 
"that  ass  of  a  Heydenreich  " ;  to  hear  the  medical 
and  surgical  gossip  of  the  Continent,  new  drugs,  new 
technique,  the  small  heart-burnings  of  the  clinics, 
student  scandal  —  had  brought  into  his  drab  days  a 
touch  of  color.  But  that  was  over  now.  Max  had 
new  friends,  new  social  obligations;  his  time  was 
taken  up.  And  pride  would  not  allow  the  older 
brother  to  show  how  he  missed  the  early  days. 

Forty- two  he  was,  and,  what  with  sleepless  nights 
and  twenty  years  of  hurried  food,  he  looked  fifty. 
Fifty,  then,  to  Max's  thirty. 

"There's  a  roast  of  beef.  It's  a  pity  to  cook  a 
roast  for  one." 

Wasteful,  too,  this  cooking  of  food  for  two  and 
only  one  to  eat  it.  A  roast  of  beef  meant  a  visit,  in 
Dr.  Ed's  modest-paying  clientele.  He  still  paid  the 
expenses  of  the  house  on  the  Street. 

"Sorry,  old  man;  I've  made  another  arrange- 
ment." 

They  left  the  hospital  together.  Everywhere  the 
younger  man  received  the  homage  of  success.  The 
elevator-man  bowed  and  flung  the  doors  open,  with 

77 


a  smile;  the  pharmacy  clerk,  the  doorkeeper,  even 
the  convalescent  patient  who  was  polishing  the  great 
brass  doorplate,  tendered  their  tribute.  Dr.  Ed 
looked  neither  to  right  nor  left. 

At  the  machine  they  separated.  But  Dr.  Ed 
stood  for  a  moment  with  his  hand  on  the  car. 

"  I  was  thinking,  up  there  this  afternoon,"  he  said 
slowly,  "that  I'm  not  sure  I  want  Sidney  Page  to 
become  a  nurse." 

"Why?" 

"There's  a  good  deal  in  life  that  a  girl  need  not 
know  —  not,  at  least,  until  her  husband  tells  her. 
Sidney's  been  guarded,  and  it's  bound  to  be  a 
shock." 

"It's  her  own  choice." 

"  Exactly.  A  child  reaches  out  for  the  fire." 

The  motor  had  started.  For  the  moment,  at 
least,  the  younger  Wilson  had  no  interest  in  Sidney 
Page. 

"She'll  manage  all  right.  Plenty  of  other  girls 
have  taken  the  training  and  come  through  without 
spoiling  their  zest  for  life." 

Already,  as  the  car  moved  off,  his  mind  was  on 
his  appointment  for  the  evening. 

Sidney,  after  her  involuntary  bath  in  the  river, 
had  gone  into  temporary  eclipse  at  the  White  Springs 
Hotel.  In  the  oven  of  the  kitchen  stove  sat  her  two 
small  white  shoes,  stuffed  with  paper  so  that  they 
might  dry  in  shape.  Back  in  a  detached  laundry, 

78 


a  sympathetic  maid  was  ironing  various  soft  white 
garments,  and  singing  as  she  worked. 

Sidney  sat  in  a  rocking-chair  in  a  hot  bedroom. 
She  was  carefully  swathed  in  a  sheet  from  neck  to 
toes,  except  for  her  arms,  and  she  was  being  as  phil- 
osophic as  possible.  After  all,  it  was  a  good  chance 
to  think  things  over.  She  had  very  little  time  to 
think,  generally. 

She  meant  to  give  up  Joe  Drummond.  She  did  n't 
want  to  hurt  him.  Well,  there  was  that  to  think 
over,  and  a  matter  of  probation  dresses  to  be  talked 
over  later  with  her  Aunt  Harriet.  Also,  there  was  a 
great  deal  of  advice  to  K.  Le  Moyne,  who  was  ridic- 
ulously extravagant,  before  trusting  the  house  to 
him.  She  folded  her  white  arms  and  prepared  to 
think  over  all  these  things.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she 
went  mentally,  like  an  arrow  to  its  mark,  to  the 
younger  Wilson  —  to  his  straight  figure  in  its  white 
coat,  to  his  dark  eyes  and  heavy  hair,  to  the  cleft  in 
his  chin  when  he  smiled. 

"You  know,  I  have  always  been  more  than  half 
in  love  with  you  myself  ..." 

Some  one  tapped  lightly  at  the  door.  She  was 
back  again  in  the  stuffy  hotel  room,  clutching  the 
sheet  about  her. 

"Yes?" 

"It's  Le  Moyne.  Are  you  all  right?" 

"  Perfectly.  How  stupid  it  must  be  for  you!" 

"I'm  doing  very  well.  The  maid  will  soon  be 
ready.  What  shall  I  order  for  supper?" 

79 


"Anything.   I'm  starving." 

Whatever  visions  K.  Le  Moyne  may  have  had  of 
a  chill  or  of  a  feverish  cold  were  dispelled  by  that. 

"The  moon  has  arrived,  as  per  specifications. 
Shall  we  eat  on  the  terrace?" 

"  I  have  never  eaten  on  a  terrace  in  my  life.  I  'd 
love  it." 

11 1  think  your  shoes  have  shrunk." 

4 ' Flatterer !"  She  laughed.  "Go  away  and  order 
supper.  And  I  can  see  fresh  lettuce.  Shall  we  have 
a  salad?" 

K.  Le  Moyne  assured  her  through  the  door  that 
he  would  order  a  salad,  and  prepared  to  descend. 

But  he  stood  for  a  moment  in  front  of  the  closed 
door,  for  the  mere  sound  of  her  moving,  beyond  it.^ 
Things  had  gone  very  far  with  the  Pages'  roomer 
that  day  in  the  country ;  not  so  far  as  they  were  to 
go,  but  far  enough  to  let  him  see  on  the  brink  of 
what  misery  he  stood. 

He  could  not  go  away.  He  had  promised  her  to 
stay:  he  was  needed.  He  thought  he  could  have  en- 
dured seeing  her  marry  Joe,  had  she  cared  for  the 
boy.  That  way,  at  least,  lay  safety  for  her.  The  boy 
had  fidelity  and  devotion  written  large  over  him. 
But  this  new  complication  —  her  romantic  inter- 
est in  Wilson,  the  surgeon's  reciprocal  interest  in 
her,  with  what  he  knew  of  the  man  —  made  him 
quail. 

From  the  top  of  the  narrow  staircase  to  the  foot, 
and  he  had  lived  a  year's  torment !  At  the  foot,  how- 

80 


ever,  he  was  startled  out  of  his  reverie.  Joe  Drum- 
mond  stood  there  waiting  for  him,  his  blue  eyes 
recklessly  alight. 

"You  —  you  dog!"  said  Joe. 

There  were  people  in  the  hotel  parlor.  Le  Moyne 
took  the  frenzied  boy  by  the  elbow  and  led  him  past 
the  door  to  the  empty  porch. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "if  you  will  keep  your  voice 
down,  I  '11  listen  to  what  you  have  to  say." 

"  You  know  what  I  've  got  to  say." 

This  failing  to  draw  from  K.  Le  Moyne  anything 
but  his  steady  glance,  Joe  jerked  his  arm  free  and 
clenched  his  fist. 

"What  did  you  bring  her  out  here  for?" 

"  I  do  not  know  that  I  owe  you  any  explanation, 
but  I  am  willing  to  give  you  one.  I  brought  her  out 
here  for  a  trolley  ride  and  a  picnic  luncheon.  Inci- 
dentally we  brought  the  ground  squirrel  out  and 
set  him  free." 

He  was  sorry  for  the  boy.  Life  not  having  been 
all  beer  and  skittles  to  him,  he  knew  that  Joe  was 
suffering,  and  was  marvelously  patient  with  him. 

"Where  is  she  now?" 

"She  had  the  misfortune  to  fall  in  the  river.  She 
is  upstairs."  And,  seeing  the  light  of  unbelief  in 
Joe's  eyes:  "  If  you  care  to  make  a  tour  of  investiga- 
tion, you  will  find  that  I  am  entirely  truthful.  In 
the  laundry  a  maid  — " 

"She  is  engaged  to  me"  —  doggedly.  "Every- 
body in  the  neighborhood  knows  it,  and  yet  you 

Si 


bring  her  out  here  for  a  picnic  1  It's  —  it's  damned 
rotten  treatment." 

His  fist  had  unclenched.  Before  K.  Le  Moyne's 
eyes  his  own  fell.  He  felt  suddenly  young  and  futile; 
his  just  rage  turned  to  blustering  in  his  ears. 

"Now,  be  honest  with  yourself.  Is  there  really 
an  engagement?" 

"Yes,"  doggedly. 

"  Even  in  that  case,  is  n't  it  rather  arrogant  to  say 
that  —  that  the  young  lady  in  question  can  accept 
no  ordinary  friendly  attentions  from  another  man?  " 

Utter  astonishment  left  Joe  almost  speechless. 
The  Street,  of  course,  regarded  an  engagement  as  a 
setting  aside  of  the  affianced  couple,  an  isolation  of 
two,  than  which  marriage  itself  was  not  more  a  soli- 
tude &  deux.  After  a  moment:  — 

"I  don't  know  where  you  came  from,"  he  said, 
"but  around  here  decent  men  cut  out  when  a  girl's 
engaged." 

"I  see!" 

"What's  more,  what  do  we  know  about  you? 
Who  are  you,  anyhow?  I've  looked  you  up.  Even 
at  your  office  they  don't  know  anything.  You  may 
be  all  right,  but  how  do  I  know  it?  And,  even  if  you 
are,  renting  a  room  in  the  Page  house  does  n't  en- 
title you  to  interfere  with  the  family.  You  get  her 
into  trouble  and  I'll  kill  you!" 

It  took  courage,  that  speech,  with  K.  Le  Moyne 
towering  five  inches  above  him  and  growing  a  little 
white  about  the  lips. 

82 


"Are  you  going  to  say  all  these  things  to  Sidney?  '* 

"Does  she  allow  you  to  call  her  Sidney?" 

"Are  you?" 

"  I  am.  And  I  am  going  to  find  out  why  you  were 
upstairs  just  now." 

Perhaps  never  in  his  twenty-two  years  had  young 
Drummond  been  so  near  a  thrashing.  Fury  that  he 
was  ashamed  of  shook  Le  Moyne.  For  very  fear  of 
himself,  he  thrust  his  hands  in  the  pockets  of  his 
Norfolk  coat. 

"Very  well,"  he  said.  "You  go  to  her  with  just 
one  of  these  ugly  insinuations,  and  I  '11  take  mighty 
good  care  that  you  are  sorry  for  it.  I  don't  care  to 
threaten.  You're  younger  than  I  am,  and  lighter. 
But  if  you  are  going  to  behave  like  a  bad  child,  you 
deserve  a  licking,  and  I'll  give  it  to  you." 

An  overflow  from  the  parlor  poured  out  on  the 
porch.    Le  Moyne  had  got  himself  in  hand  some 
what.  He  was  still  angry,  but  the  look  in  Joe's  eye*, 
startled  him.  He  put  a  hand  on  the  boy's  shoulder, 

"You're  wrong,  old  man,"  he  said.  "You're  in- 
sulting the  girl  you  care  for  by  the  things  you  ar^ 
thinking.  And,  if  it's  any  comfort  to  you,  I  have  no 
intention  of  interfering  in  any  way.  You  can  count 
me  out.  It's  between  you  and  her." 

Joe  picked  his  straw  hat  from  a  chair  and  stood 
turning  it  in  his  hands. 

"Even  if  you  don't  care  for  her,  how  do  I  know 
she  is  n't  crazy  about  you?" 

"My  word  of  honor,  she  is  n't." 

83 


"She  sends  you  notes  to  McKees'." 

''Just  to  clear  the  air,  I  '11  show  it  to  you.  It's  no 
breach  of  confidence.  It's  about  the  hospital." 

Into  the  breast  pocket  of  his  coat  he  dived  and 
brought  up  a  wallet.  The  wallet  had  had  a  name  on 
it  in  gilt  letters  that  had  been  carefully  scraped  off. 
But  Joe  did  not  wait  to  see  the  note. 

"Oh,  damn  the  hospital!"  he  said  —  and  went 
swiftly  down  the  steps  and  into  the  gathering  twi- 
light of  the  June  night. 

It  was  only  when  he  reached  the  street-car,  and 
sat  huddled  in  a  corner,  that  he  remembered  some- 
thing. 

Only  about  the  hospital  —  but  Le  Moyne  had 
kept  the  note,  treasured  it !  Joe  was  not  subtle,  not 
even  clever;  but  he  was  a  lover,  and  he  knew  the 
ways  of  love.  The  Pages'  roomer  was  in  love  with 
Sidney,  whether  he  knew  it  or  not. 


CHAPTER    VII 

CARLOTTA  HARRISON  pleaded  a  headache,  and  wan 
excused  from  the  operating-room  and  from  prayers. 

"  I'm  sorry  about  the  vacation,"  Miss  Gregg  said 
kindly,  "but  in  a  day  or  two  I  can  let  you  off.  Go 
out  now  and  get  a  little  air." 

The  girl  managed  to  dissemble  the  triumph  in  her 
eyes. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  languidly,  and  turned 
away.  Then:  "About  the  vacation,  I  am  not  in 
a  hurry.  If  Miss  Simpson  needs  a  few  days  to 
straighten  things  out,  I  can  stay  on  with  Dr.  Wil- 
son." 

Young  women  on  the  eve  of  a  vacation  were  not 
usually  so  reasonable.  Miss  Gregg  was  grateful. 

"She  will  probably  need  a  week.  Thank  you.  I 
wish  more  of  the  girls  were  as  thoughtful,  with  the 
house  full  and  operations  all  day  and  every  day." 

Outside  the  door  of  the  anaesthetizing-room  Miss 
Harrison's  languor  vanished.  She  sped  along  cor- 
ridors and  up  the  stairs,  not  waiting  for  the  deliber- 
ate elevator.  Inside  of  her  room,  she  closed  and 
bolted  the  door,  and,  standing  before  her  mirror, 
gazed  long  at  her  dark  eyes  and  bright  hair.  Then 
she  proceeded  briskly  with  her  dressing. 

Carlotta  Harrison  was  not  a  child.  Though  she 

85 


was  only  three  years  older  than  Sidney,  her  experi- 
ence of  life  was  as  of  three  to  Sidney's  one.  The  prod- 
uct of  a  curious  marriage,  —  when  Tommy  Harri- 
son of  Harrison's  Minstrels,  touring  Spain  with  his 
troupe,  had  met  the  pretty  daughter  of  a  Spanish 
shopkeeper  and  eloped  with  her,  —  she  had  certain 
qualities  of  both,  a  Yankee  shrewdness  and  capacity 
that  made  her  a  capable  nurse,  complicated  by  oc- 
casional outcroppings  of  southern  Europe,  furious 
bursts  of  temper,  slow  and  smouldering  vindictive- 
ness.  A  passionate  creature,  in  reality,  smothered 
under  hereditary  Massachusetts  caution. 

She  was  well  aware  of  the  risks  of  the  evening's 
adventure.  The  only  dread  she  had  was  of  the  dis- 
covery of  her  escapade  by  the  hospital  authorities. 
Lines  were  sharply  drawn.  Nurses  were  forbidden 
more  than  the  exchange  of  professional  conversation 
with  the  staff.  In  that  world  of  her  choosing,  of  hard 
work  and  little  play,  of  service  and  self-denial  and 
vigorous  rules  of  conduct,  discovery  meant  dis- 
missal. 

She  put  on  a  soft  black  dress,  open  at  the  throat, 
and  with  a  wide  white  collar  and  cuffs  of  some  sheer 
material.  Her  yellow  hair  was  drawn  high  under  her 
low  black  hat.  From  her  Spanish  mother  she  had 
learned  to  please  the  man,  not  herself.  She  guessed 
that  Dr.  Max  would  wish  her  to  be  inconspicuous, 
and  she  dressed  accordingly.  Then,  being  a  cau- 
tious person,  she  disarranged  her  bed  slightly  and 
thumped  a  hollow  into  her  pillow.  The  nurses' 

86 


rooms  were  subject  to  inspection,  and  she  had 
pleaded  a  headache. 

She  was  exactly  on  time.  Dr.  Max,  driving  up  to 
the  corner  five  minutes  late,  found  her  there,  quite 
matter-of-fact  but  exceedingly  handsome,  and  ac- 
knowledged the  evening's  adventure  much  to  his 
taste. 

"A  little  air  first,  and  then  supper  —  how 's  that?  " 

"Air  first,  please.   I'm  very  tired." 

He  turned  the  car  toward  the  suburbs,  and  then, 
bending  toward  her,  smiled  into  her  eyes. 

"Well,  this  is  life!" 

" I'm  cool  for  the  first  time  to-day." 

After  that  they  spoke  very  little.  Even  Wilson's 
superb  nerves  had  felt  the  strain  of  the  afternoon, 
and  under  the  girl's  dark  eyes  were  purplish  shad- 
ows. She  leaned  back,  weary  but  luxuriously  con- 
tent. 

Once  he  turned  and  looked  down  at  her. 

"Not  uneasy,  are  you?" 

"Not  particularly.  I'm  too  comfortable.  But  I 
hope  we're  not  seen." 

' '  Even  if  we  are,  why  not  ?  You  are  going  with  me 
to  a  case.  I  Ve  driven  Miss  Simpson  about  a  lot." 

It  was  almost  eight  when  he  turned  the  car  into 
the  drive  of  the  White  Springs  Hotel.  The  six-to- 
eight  supper  was  almost  over.  One  or  two  motor 
parties  were  preparing  for  the  moonlight  drive  back 
to  the  city.  All  around  was  virgin  country,  sweet 
with  early  summer  odors  of  new-cut  grass,  of  blos- 

37 


soming  trees  and  warm  earth.  On  the  grass  terrace 
over  the  valley,  where  ran  Sidney's  unlucky  river, 
was  a  magnolia  full  of  creamy  blossoms  among 
waxed  leaves.  Its  silhouette  against  the  sky  was 
quaintly  heart-shaped. 

Under  her  mask  of  languor,  Carlotta's  heart  was 
beating  wildly.  What  an  adventure!  What  a  night i 
Let  him  lose  his  head  a  little;  she  could  keep  hers. 
If  she  were  skillful  and  played  things  right,  who 
could  tell?  To  marry  him,  to  leave  behind  the  drudg- 
ery of  the  hospital,  to  feel  safe  as  she  had  not  felt  for 
years,  that  was  a  stroke  to  play  for! 

The  magnolia  was  just  beside  her.  She  reached  up 
and,  breaking  off  one  of  the  heavy-scented  flowers, 
placed  it  in  the  bosom  of  her  black  dress. 

Sidney  and  K.  Le  Moyne  were  dining  together. 
The  novelty  of  the  experience  had  made  her  eyes 
shine  like  stars.  She  saw  only  the  magnolia  tree 
shaped  like  a  heart,  the  terrace  edged  with  low  shrub- 
bery, and  beyond  the  faint  gleam  that  was  the  river. 
For  her  the  dish-washing  clatter  of  the  kitchen  was 
stilled,  the  noises  from  the  bar  were  lost  in  the  ripple 
of  the  river ;  the  scent  of  the  grass  killed  the  odor  of 
stale  beer  that  wafted  out  through  the  open  windows. 
The  unshaded  glare  of  the  lights  behind  her  in  the 
house  was  eclipsed  by  the  crescent  edge  of  the  rising 
moon.  Dinner  was  over.  Sidney  was  experiencing 
the  rare  treat  of  after-dinner  coffee. 

Le  Moyne,  grave  and  contained,  sat  across  from 

88 


her.  To  give  so  much  pleasure,  and  so  easily!  How 
young  she  was,  and  radiant !  No  wonder  the  boy  was 
mad  about  her.  She  fairly  held  out  her  arms  to  life. 

Ah,  that  was  too  bad!  Another  table  was  being 
brought;  they  were  not  to  be  alone.  But  what 
roused  in  him  violent  resentment  only  appealed  to 
Sidney's  curiosity. 

"Two  places!"  she  commented.  "Lovers,  of 
course.  Or  perhaps  honeymooners." 

K.  tried  to  fall  into  her  mood. 

"A  box  of  candy  against  a  good  cigar,  they  are  a 
stolid  married  couple." 

"How  shall  we  know?" 

"That's  easy.  If  they  loll  back  and  watch  the 
kitchen  door,  I  win.  If  they  lean  forward,  elbows  on 
the  table,  and  talk,  you  get  the  candy." 

Sidney,  who  had  been  leaning  forward,  talking 
eagerly  over  the  table,  suddenly  straightened  and 
flushed. 

Carlotta  Harrison  came  out  alone.  Although  the 
tapping  of  her  heels  was  dulled  by  the  grass,  al- 
though she  had  exchanged  her  cap  for  the  black  hat, 
Sidney  knew  her  at  once.  A  sort  of  thrill  ran  over 
her.  It  was  the  pretty  nurse  from  Dr.  Wilson's 
office.  Was  it  possible  —  but  of  course  not!  The 
book  of  rules  stated  explicitly  that  such  things  were 
forbidden. 

"  Don't  turn  around,"  she  said  swiftly.  "  It  is  the 
Miss  Harrison  I  told  you  about.  She  is  looking  at 


89 


Carlotta's  eyes  were  blinded  for  a  moment  by 
the  glare  of  the  house  lights.  She  dropped  into  her 
chair,  with  a  flash  of  resentment  at  the  proximity 
of  the  other  table.  She  languidly  surveyed  its  two 
occupants.  Then  she  sat  up,  her  eyes  on  Le  Moyne's 
grave  profile  turned  toward  the  valley. 

Lucky  for  her  that  Wilson  had  stopped  in  the  bar, 
that  Sidney's  instinctive  good  manners  forbade  her 
staring,  that  only  the  edge  of  the  summer  moon 
shone  through  the  trees.  She  went  white  and 
clutched  the  edge  of  the  table,  with  her  eyes  closed. 
That  gave  her  quick  brain  a  chance.  It  was  mad- 
ness, June  madness.  She  was  always  seeing  him, 
even  in  her  dreams.  This  man  was  older,  much 
older.  She  looked  again. 

She  had  not  been  mistaken.  Here,  and  after  all 
these  months!  K.  Le  Moyne,  quite  unconscious  of 
her  presence,  looked  down  into  the  valley. 

Wilson  appeared  on  the  wooden  porch  above  the 
terrace,  and  stood,  his  eyes  searching  the  half  light 
for  her.  If  he  came  down  to  her,  the  man  at  the  next 
table  might  turn,  would  see  her  — 

She  rose  and  went  swiftly  back  toward  the  hotel. 
All  the  gayety  was  gone  out  of  the  evening  for  her, 
but  she  forced  a  lightness  she  did  not  feel :  — 

"It  is  so  dark  and  depressing  out  there  —  it 
makes  me  sad." 

"Surely  you  do  not  want  to  dine  in  the  house?" 

"Do  you  mind?" 

"Just  as  you  wish.  This  is  your  evening." 

90 


But  he  was  not  pleased.  The  prospect  of  the  glar- 
ing lights  and  soiled  linen  of  the  dining-room  jarred 
on  his  aesthetic  sense.  He  wanted  a  setting  for  him- 
self, for  the  girl.  Environment  was  vital  to  him. 
But  when,  in  the  full  light  of  the  moon,  he  saw  the 
purplish  shadows  under  her  eyes,  he  forgot  his  resent- 
ment. She  had  had  a  hard  day.  She  was  tired.  His 
easy  sympathies  were  roused.  He  leaned  over  and 
ran  his  hand  caressingly  along  her  bare  "orearm. 

"  Your  wish  is  my  law  —  to-night,"  he  said  softly. 

After  all,  the  evening  was  a  disappointment  to 
him.  The  spontaneity  had  gone  out  of  it,  for  some 
reason.  The  girl  who  had  thrilled  to  his  glance  those 
two  mornings  in  his  office,  whose  somber  eyes  had 
met  his,  fire  for  fire,  across  the  operating-room,  was 
not  playing  up.  She  sat  back  in  her  chair,  eating 
little,  starting  at  every  step.  Her  eyes,  which  by 
every  rule  of  the  game  should  have  been  gazing  into 
his,  were  fixed  on  the  oilcloth-covered  passage  out- 
side the  door. 

"I  think,  after  all,  you  are  frightened!" 

"Terribly." 

"A  little  danger  adds  to  the  zest  of  things.  You 
know  what  Nietzsche  says  about  that." 

"I  am  not  fond  of  Nietzsche."  Then,  with  an 
effort:  "What  does  he  say?" 

"  'Two  things  are  wanted  by  the  true  man  — 
danger  and  play.  Therefore  he  seeketh  woman  as 
the  most  dangerous  of  toys/  ' 

"Women  are  dangerous  only  when  you  think  of 


K 


them  as  toys.  When  a  man  finds  that  a  woman  can 
reason,  —  do  anything  but  feel,  —  he  regards  her 
as  a  menace.  But  the  reasoning  woman  is  really 
less  dangerous  than  the  other  sort." 

This  was  more  like  the  real  thing.  To  talk  careful 
abstractions  like  this,  with  beneath  each  abstrac- 
tion its  concealed  personal  application,  to  talk  of 
woman  and  look  in  her  eyes,  to  discuss  new  phi- 
losophies with  their  freedoms,  to  discard  old  creeds 
and  old  moralities  —  that  was  his  game.  Wilson  be- 
came content,  interested  again.  The  girl  was  nimble- 
minded.  She  challenged  his  philosophy  and  gave 
him  a  chance  to  defend  it.  With  the  conviction,  as 
their  meal  went  on,  that  Le  Moyne  and  his  compan- 
ion must  surely  have  gone,  she  gained  ease. 

It  was  only  by  wild  driving  that  she  got  back  to 
the  hospital  by  ten  o'clock. 

Wilson  left  her  at  the  corner,  well  content  with 
himself.  He  had  had  the  rest  he  needed  in  congenial 
company.  The  girl  stimulated  his  interest.  She  was 
mental,  but  not  too  mental.  And  he  approved  of  his 
own  attitude.  He  had  been  discreet.  Even  if  she 
talked,  there  was  nothing  to  tell.  But  he  felt  confi- 
dent that  she  would  not  talk. 

As  he  drove  up  the  Street,  he  glanced  across  at 
the  Page  house.  Sidney  was  there  on  the  doorstep, 
talking  to  a  tall  man  who  stood  below  and  looked  up 
at  her.  Wilson  settled  his  tie,  in  the  darkness.  Sid- 
ney was  a  mighty  pretty  girl.  The  June  night  was 
in  his  blood.  He  was  sorry  he  had  not  kissed  Car- 

93 


lotta  good-night.  He  rather  thought,  now  he  looked 
back,  she  had  expected  it. 

As  he  got  out  of  his  car  at  the  curb,  a  young  man 
who  had  been  standing  in  the  shadow  of  the  tree-box 
moved  quickly  away. 

Wilson  smiled  after  him  in  the  darkness. 

"That  you,  Joe?"  he  called. 

But  the  boy  went  on. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

SIDNEY  entered  the  hospital  as  a  probationer  early 
in  August.  Christine  was  to  be  married  in  Septem- 
ber to  Palmer  Howe,  and,  with  Harriet  and  K.  in 
the  house,  she  felt  that  she  could  safely  leave  her 
mother. 

The  balcony  outside  the  parlor  was  already  under 
way.  On  the  night  before  she  went  away,  Sidney 
took  chairs  out  there  and  sat  with  her  mother  until 
the  dew  drove  Anna  to  the  lamp  in  the  sewing-room 
and  her  "Daily  Thoughts"  reading. 

Sidney  sat  alone  and  viewed  her  world  from  this 
new  and  pleasant  angle.  She  could  see  the  garden 
and  the  whitewashed  fence  with  its  morning-glories, 
and  at  the  same  time,  by  turning  her  head,  view  the 
Wilson  house  across  the  Street.  She  looked  mostly 
at  the  Wilson  house. 

K.  Le  Moyne  was  upstairs  in  his  room.  She  could 
hear  him  tramping  up  and  down,  and  catch,  occa- 
sionally, the  bitter-sweet  odor  of  his  old  brier 
pipe. 

All  the  small  loose  ends  of  her  life  were  gathered 
up  —  except  Joe.  She  would  have  liked  to  get  that 
clear,  too.  She  wanted  him  to  know  how  she  felt 
about  it  all :  that  she  liked  him  as  much  as  ever,  that 
she  did  not  want  to  hurt  him.  But  she  wanted  to 

94 


make  it  clear,  too,  that  she  knew  now  that  she 
would  never  marry  him.  She  thought  she  would 
never  marry;  but,  if  she  did,  it  would  be  a  man 
doing  a  man's  work  in  the  world.  Her  eyes  turned 
wistfully  to  the  house  across  the  Street. 

K.'s  lamp  still  burned  overhead,  but  his  restless 
tramping  about  had  ceased.  He  must  be  reading  — 
he  read  a  great  deal.  She  really  ought  to  go  to  bed. 
A  neighborhood  cat  came  stealthily  across  the 
Street,  and  stared  up  at  the  little  balcony  with 
green-glowing  eyes. 

"Come  on,  Bill  Taft,"  she  said.  "Reginald  is 
gone,  so  you  are  welcome.  Come  on." 

Joe  Drummond,  passing  the  house  for  the  fourth 
time  that  evening,  heard  her  voice,  and  hesitated 
Uncertainly  on  the  pavement. 

"That  you,  Sid?"  he  called  softly. 

"Joe!  Come  in." 

"It's  late;  I'd  better  get  home." 

The  misery  in  his  voice  hurt  her. 

"  I  '11  not  keep  you  long.   I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

He  came  slowly  toward  her. 

11  Well?  "he  said  hoarsely. 

"You're  not  very  kind  to  me,  Joe." 

"  My  God ! "  said  poor  Joe.  "  Kind  to  you !  Is  n't 
tbe  kindest  thing  I  can  do  to  keep  out  of  your 
way?" 

"Not  if  you  are  hating  me  all  the  time." 

41 1  don't  hate  you." 

"Then  why  haven't  you  been  to  see  me?  If  I 

95 


have  done  anything — "  Her  voice  was  a- tingle 
with  virtue  and  outraged  friendship. 

"You  haven't  done  anything  but  —  show  me 
where  I  get  off." 

He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  balcony  and  stared 
out  blankly. 

"If  that's  the  way  you  feel  about  it  — " 

"I'm  not  blaming  you.  I  was  a  fool  to  think 
you  'd  ever  care  about  me.  I  don't  know  that  I  feel 
so  bad  —  about  the  thing.  I  Ve  been  around  seeing 
some  other  girls,  and  I  notice  they  're  glad  to  see  me, 
and  treat  me  right,  too."  There  was  boyish  bravado 
in  his  voice.  "But  what  makes  me  sick  is  to  have 
every  one  saying  you've  jilted  me." 

"Good  gracious!  Why,  Joe,  I  never  promised." 

"Well,  we  look  at  it  in  different  ways;  that's  all. 
I  took  it  for  a  promise." 

Then  suddenly  all  his  carefully  conserved  indiffer- 
ence fled.  He  bent  forward  quickly  and,  catching 
her  hand,  held  it  against  his  lips. 

"  I  'm  crazy  about  you,  Sidney.  That's  the  truth. 
I  wish  I  could  die!" 

The  cat,  finding  no  active  antagonism,  sprang  up 
on  the  balcony  and  rubbed  against  the  boy's  quiver- 
ing shoulders ;  a*  breath  of  air  stroked  the  morning- 
glory  vine  like  the  touch  of  a  friendly  hand.  Sidney, 
facing  for  the  first  time  the  enigma  of  love  and  de- 
spair sat,  rather  frightened,  in  her  chair. 

"You  don't  mean  that!" 

"  I  mean  it,  all  right.  If  it  was  n't  for  the  folks, 

96 


I'd  jump  in  the  river.  I  lied  when  I  said  I'd  been 
to  see  other  girls.  What  do  I  want  with  other  girls? 
I  want  you!" 

"  I  'm  not  worth  all  that." 

"No  girl's  worth  what  I 've  been  going  through," 
he  retorted  bitterly.  "But  that  doesn't  help  any. 
I  don't  eat;  I  don't  sleep  —  I  'm  afraid  sometimes  of 
the  way  I  feel.  When  I  saw  you  at  the  White  Springs 
with  that  roomer  chap  — " 

"Ah!  You  were  there!" 

"If  I'd  had  a  gun  I'd  have  killed  him.  I 
thought  —  " 

So  far,  out  of  sheer  pity,  she  had  left  her  hand  in 
his.  Now  she  drew  it  away. 

"This  is  wild,  silly  talk.   You'll  be  sorry  to-mor- 


row." 


"It's  the  truth,"  doggedly. 

But  he  made  a  clutch  at  his  self-respect.  He  was 
acting  like  a  crazy  boy,  and  he  was  a  man,  all  of 
twenty- two ! 

"When  are  you  going  to  the  hospital?" 

"To-morrow." 

"  Is  that  Wilson's  hospital?" 

"Yes." 

Alas  for  his  resolve !  The  red  haze  of  jealousy  came 
again.  "You  '11  be  seeing  him  every  day,  I  suppose." 

"I  dare  say.  I  shall  also  be  seeing  twenty  or 
thirty  other  doctors,  and  a  hundred  or  so  men  pa- 
tients, not  to  mention  visitors.  Joe,  you're  not 
rational." 

97 


"No,"  he  said  heavily,  "I'm  not.  If  it's  got  to 
be  some  one,  Sidney,  I  'd  rather  have  it  the  roomer 
upstairs  than  Wilson.  There's  a  lot  of  talk  about 
Wilson." 

"  It  is  n't  necessary  to  malign  my  friends." 

He  rose. 

"I  thought  perhaps,  since  you  are  going  away, 
you  would  let  me  keep  Reginald.  He'd  be  some- 
thing to  remember  you  by." 

"One  would  think  I  was  about  to  die!  I  set  Regi- 
nald free  that  day  in  the  country.  I  'm  sorry,  Joe. 
You'll  come  to  see  me  now  and  then,  won't  you?" 

"If  I  do,  do  you  think  you  may  change  your 
mind?" 

" I'm  afraid  not." 

"I've  got  to  fight  this  out  alone,  and  the  less  I 
see  of  you  the  better."  But  his  next  words  belied 
his  intention.  * '  And  Wilson  had  better  look  out.  I  '11 
be  watching.  If  I  see  him  playing  any  of  his  tricka 
around  you  —  well,  he'd  better  look  out!" 

That,  as  it  turned  out,  was  Joe's  farewell.  He  had 
reached  the  breaking-point.  He  gave  her  a  long 
look,  blinked,  and  walked  rapidly  out  to  the  Street. 
Some  of  the  dignity  of  his  retreat  was  lost  by  the 
fact  that  the  cat  followed  him,  close  at  his  heels. 

Sidney  was  hurt,  greatly  troubled.  If  this  was 
love,  she  did  not  want  it  —  this  strange  compound 
of  suspicion  and  despair,  injured  pride  and  threats. 
Lovers  in  fiction  were  of  two  classes  —  the  accepted 
ones,  who  loved  and  trusted,  and  the  rejected  ones, 

98 


who  took  themselves  away  in  despair,  but  at  least 
took  themselves  away.  The  thought  of  a  future 
with  Joe  always  around  a  corner,  watching  her, 
obsessed  her.  She  felt  aggrieved,  insulted.  She  even 
shed  a  tear  or  two,  very  surreptitiously;  and  then, 
being  human  and  much  upset,  and  the  cat  startling 
her  by  its  sudden  return  and  selfish  advances,  she 
shooed  it  off  the  veranda  and  set  an  imaginary  dog 
after  it.  Whereupon,  feeling  somewhat  better,  she 
went  in  and  locked  the  balcony  window  and  pro- 
ceeded upstairs. 

Le  Moyne's  light  was  still  going.  The  rest  of  the 
household  slept.  She  paused  outside  the  door. 

"Are  you  sleepy? "    -  very  softly. 

There  was  a  movement  inside,  the  sound  of  a  book 
put  down.  Then:  "No,  indeed." 

"  I  may  not  see  you  in  the  morning.    I  leave  to- 


morrow." 


"Just  a  minute." 

From  the  sounds,  she  judged  that  he  was  putting 
on  his  shabby  gray  coat.  The  next  moment  he 
had  opened  the  door  and  stepped  out  into  the  cor- 
ridor. 

"I  believe  you  had  forgotten!" 

"I?  Certainly  not.  I  started  downstairs  a  while 
ago,  but  you  had  a  visitor." 

"Only  Joe  Drummond." 

He  gazed  down  at  her  quizzically. 

"And  —  is  Joe  more  reasonable?" 

99 


"He  will  be.  He  knows  now  that  I  —  that  I  shall 
not  marry  him." 

"  Poor  chap!  He'll  buck  up,  of  course.  But  it's  a 
little  hard  just  now." 

"  I  believe  you  think  I  should  have  married  him." 

"I  am  only  putting  myself  in  his  place  and  real- 
izing —  When  do  you  leave?" 

"Just  after  breakfast." 

"  I  am  going  very  early.   Perhaps  —  " 

He  hesitated.  Then,  hurriedly:  — 

"  I  got  a  little  present  for  you  —  nothing  much, 
but  your  mother  was  quite  willing.  In  fact,  we 
bought  it  together." 

He  went  back  into  his  room,  and  returned  with  a 
small  box. 

"With  all  sorts  of  good  luck,"  he  said,  and  placed 
it  in  her  hands. 

"How  dear  of  you!  And  may  I  look  now?" 

"  I  wish  you  would.  Because,  if  you  would  rather 
have  something  else  —  " 

She  opened  the  box  with  excited  fingers.  Ticking 
away  on  its  satin  bed  was  a  small  gold  watch. 

"You'll  need  it,  you  see,"  he  explained  nerv- 
ously. "It  wasn't  extravagant  under  the  cir- 
cumstances. Your  mother's  watch,  which  you  had 
intended  to  take,  had  no  second-hand.  You'll  need 
a  second-1  and  to  take  pulses,  you  know." 

"A  watch,"  said  Sidney,  eyes  on  it.  "A  dear 
little  watch,  to  pin  on  and  not  put  in  a  pocket- 
Why,  vou're  the  best  person!" 

100 


"  I  was  afraid  you  might  think  it  presumptuous," 
he  said.  "  I  have  n't  any  right,  of  course.  I  thought 
of  flowers  —  but  they  fade  and  what  have  you? 
You  said  that,  you  know,  about  Joe's  roses.  And 
then,  your  mother  said  you  would  n't  be  of- 
fended—" 

"Don't  apologize  for  making  me  so  happy !"  she 
cried.  "It's  wonderful,  really.  And  the  little  hand 
is  for  pulses!  How  many  queer  things  you  know!" 

After  that  she  must  pin  it  on,  and  slip  in  to  stand 
before  his  mirror  and  inspect  the  result.  It  gave 
Le  Moyne  a  queer  thrill  to  see  her  there  in  the  room, 
among  his  books  and  his  pipes.  It  made  him  a  little 
sick,  too,  in  view  of  to-morrow  and  the  thousand- 
odd  to-morrows  when  she  would  not  be  there. 

"I've  kept  you  up  shamefully,"  she  said  at  last, 
"and  you  get  up  so  early.  I  shall  write  you  a  note 
from  the  hospital,  delivering  a  little  lecture  on  ex- 
travagance —  because  how  can  I  now,  with  this 
joy  shining  on  me?  And  about  how  to  keep  Katie 
in  order  about  your  socks,  and  all  sorts  of  things. 
And  —  and  now,  good-night." 

She  had  moved  to  the  door,  and  he  followed  her, 
stooping  a  little  to  pass  under  the  low  chandelier. 

"Good-night,"  said  Sidney. 

"Good-bye  —  and  God  bless  you." 

She  went  out,  and  he  closed  the  door  softly  be- 
hind her. 


CHAPTER  IX 

SIDNEY  never  forgot  her  early  impressions  of  the 
hospital,  although  they  were  chaotic  enough  at  first. 
There  were  uniformed  young  women  coming  and 
going,  efficient,  cool-eyed,  low  of  voice.  There  were 
medicine-closets  with  orderly  rows  of  labeled  bottles, 
linen-rooms  with  great  stacks  of  sheets  and  towels, 
long  vistas  of  shining  floors  and  lines  of  beds.  There 
were  brisk  internes  with  duck  clothes  and  brass 
buttons,  who  eyed  her  with  friendly,  patronizing 
glances.  There  were  bandages  and  dressings,  and 
great  white  screens  behind  which  were  played  little 
or  big  dramas,  baths  or  deaths,  as  the  case  might  be. 
And  over  all  brooded  the  mysterious  authority  of 
the  superintendent  of  the  training-school,  dubbed 
the  Head,  for  short. 

Twelve  hours  a  day,  from  seven  to  seven,  with 
the  off-duty  intermission,  Sidney  labored  at  tasks 
which  revolted  her  soul.  She  swept  and  dusted  the 
wards,  cleaned  closets,  folded  sheets  and  towels, 
rolled  bandages  —  did  everything  but  nurse  the 
sick,  which  was  what  she  had  come  to  do. 

At  night  she  did  not  go  home.  She  sat  on  the  edge 
of  her  narrow  white  bed  and  soaked  her  aching  feet 
in  hot  water  and  witch  hazel,  and  practiced  taking 
pulses  on  her  own  slender  wrist,  with  K.'s  little 
watch. 

102 


Out  of  all  the  long,  hot  days,  two  periods  stood 
out  clearly,  to  be  waited  for  and  cherished.  One 
was  when,  early  in  the  afternoon,  with  the  ward  in 
spotless  order,  the  shades  drawn  against  the  August 
sun,  the  tables  covered  with  their  red  covers,  and 
the  only  sound  the  drone  of  the  bandage-machine 
as  Sidney  steadily  turned  it,  Dr.  Max  passed  the 
door  on  his  way  to  the  surgical  ward  beyond,  and 
gave  her  a  cheery  greeting.  At  these  times  Sidney's 
heart  beat  almost  in  time  with  the  ticking  of  the 
little  watch. 

The  other  hour  was  at  twilight,  when,  work  over 
for  the  day,  the  night  nurse,  with  her  rubber-soled 
shoes  and  tired  eyes  and  jangling  keys,  having  re- 
ported and  received  the  night  orders,  the  nurses 
gathered  in  their  small  parlor  for  prayers.  It  was 
months  before  Sidney  got  over  the  exaltation  of 
that  twilight  hour,  and  never  did  it  cease  to  bring 
her  healing  and  peace.  In  a  way,  it  crystallized  for 
her  what  the  day's  work  meant:  charity  and  its 
sister,  service,  the  promise  of  rest  and  peace.  Into 
the  little  parlor  filed  the  nurses,  and  knelt,  folding 
their  tired  hands. 

"The  Lord  is  my  shepherd,"  read  the  Head  out 
of  her  worn  Bible;  "I  shall  not  want." 

And  the  nurses:  "  He  maketh  me  to  lie  down  in 
green  pastures:  he  leadeth  me  beside  the  still  waters." 

And  so  on  through  the  psalm. to  the  assurance 
at  the  end,  "And  I  will  dwell  in  the  house  of  the 
Lord  for  ever." 

103 


Now  and  then  there  was  a  death  behind  one  of 
the  white  screens.  It  caused  little  change  in  the 
routine  of  the  ward.  A  nurse  stayed  behind  the 
screen,  and  her  work  was  done  by  the  others.  When 
everything  was  over,  the  time  was  recorded  exactly 
on  the  record,  and  the  body  was  taken  away. 

At  first  it  seemed  to  Sidney  that  she  could  not 
stand  this  nearness  to  death.  She  thought  the 
nurses  hard  because  they  took  it  quietly.  Then  she 
found  that  it  was  only  stoicism,  resignation,  that 
they  had  learned.  These  things  must  be,  and  the 
work  must  go  on.  Their  philosophy  made  them  no 
less  tender.  Some  such  patient  detachment  must 
be  that  of  the  angels  who  keep  the  Great  Record. 

On  her  first  Sunday  half-holiday  she  was  free  in 
the  morning,  and  went  to  church  with  her  mother, 
going  back  to  the  hospital  after  the  service.  So  it 
was  two  weeks  before  she  saw  Le  Moyne  again. 
Even  then,  it  was  only  for  a  short  time.  Christine 
and  Palmer  Howe  came  in  to  see  her,  and  to  inspect 
the  balcony,  now  finished. 

But  Sidney  and  Le  Moyne  had  a  few  words  to- 
gether first. 

There  was  a  change  in  Sidney.  Le  Moyne  was 
quick  to  see  it.  She  was  a  trifle  subdued,  with  a  puz- 
zled look  in  her  blue  eyes.  Her  mouth  was  tender, 
as  always,  but  he  thought  it  drooped.  There  was  a 
new  atmosphere  of  wistfulness  about  the  girl  that 
made  his  heart  ache. 

104 


They  were  alone  in  the  little  parlor  with  its  brown 
lamp  and  blue  silk  shade,  and  its  small  nude  Eve — 
which  Anna  kept  because  it  had  been  a  gift  from 
her  husband,  but  retired  behind  a  photograph  of 
the  minister,  so  that  only  the  head  and  a  bare  arm 
holding  the  apple  appeared  above  the  reverend  gen- 
tleman. 

K.  never  smoked  in  the  parlor,  but  by  sheer  force 
of  habit  he  held  the  pipe  in  his  teeth. 

"And  how  have  things  been  going?"  asked  Sid- 
ney practically. 

"Your  steward  has  little  to  report.  Aunt  Har- 
riet, who  left  you  her  love,  has  had  the  complete 
order  for  the  Lorenz  trousseau.  She  and  I  have 
picked  out  a  stunning  design  for  the  wedding  dress.  I 
thought  I  'd  ask  you  about  the  veil.  We're  rather  in 
a  quandary.  Do  you  like  this  new  fashion  of  draping 
the  veil  from  behind  the  coiffure  in  the  back  — " 

Sidney  had  been  sitting  on  the  edge  of  her  chair, 
staring. 

"There,"  she  said  —  "I  knew  it!  This  house  is 
fatal!  They're  making  an  old  woman  of  you  al- 
ready." Her  tone  was  tragic. 

"Miss  Lorenz  likes  the  new  method,  but  my 
personal  preference  is  for  the  old  way,  with  the 
bride's  face  covered." 

He  sucked  calmly  at  his  dead  pipe. 

"Katie  has  a  new  prescription  —  recipe  —  for 
bread.  It  has  more  bread  and  fewer  air-holes.  One 
cake  of  yeast  — " 

105 


Sidney  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"It's  perfectly  terrible!"  she  cried.  "Because 
you  rent  a  room  in  this  house  is  no  reason  why 
you  should  give  up  your  personality  and  your 
—  your  intelligence.  Not  but  that  it 's  good  for 
you.  But  Katie  has  made  bread  without  masculine 
assistance  for  a  good  many  years,  and  if  Christine 
can't  decide  about  her  own  veil  she'd  better  not 
get  married.  Mother  says  you  water  the  flowers 
every  evening,  and  lock  up  the  house  before  you 
go  to  bed.  I  —  I  never  meant  you  to  adopt  the 
family!" 

K.  removed  his  pipe  and  gazed  earnestly  into  the 
bowl. 

"Bill  Taft  has  had  kittens  under  the  porch,"  he 
said.  "And  the  groceryman  has  been  sending  short 
weight.  We  've  bought  scales  now,  and  weigh  every- 
thing." 

"You  are  evading  the  question." 

"Dear  child,  I  am  doing  these  things  because  I 
like  to  do  them.  For  —  for  some  time  I  Ve  been 
floating,  and  now  I've  got  a  home.  Every  time  I 
lock  up  the  windows  at  night,  or  cut  a  picture  out 
of  a  magazine  as  a  suggestion  to  your  Aunt  Harriet, 
it's  an  anchor  to  windward." 

Sidney  gazed  helplessly  at  his  imperturbable  face. 
He  seemed  older  than  she  had  recalled  him:  the 
hair  over  his  ears  was  almost  white.  And  yet,  he 
was  just  thirty.  That  was  Palmer  Howe's  age,  and 
Palmer  seemed  like  a  boy.  But  he  held  himself  more 

106 


erect  than  he  had  in  the  first  days  of  his  occupancy 
of  the  second-floor  front. 

"And  now,"  he  said  cheerfully,  "what  about 
yourself?  You've  lost  a  lot  of  illusions,  of  course, 
but  perhaps  you've  gained  ideals.  That's  a  step." 

"Life,"  observed  Sidney,  with  the  wisdom  of 
two  weeks  out  in  the  world,  "life  is  a  terrible 
thing,  K.  We  think  we  Ve  got  it,  and  —  it 's  got 
us." 

"Undoubtedly." 

"When  I  think  of  how  simple  I  used  to  think  it 
all  was!  One  grew  up  and  got  married,  and  —  and 
perhaps  had  children.  And  when  one  got  very  old, 
one  died.  Lately,  I  've  been  seeing  that  life  really 
consists  of  exceptions  —  children  who  don't  grow 
up,  and  grown-ups  who  die  before  they  are  old. 
And"  —  this  took  an  effort,  but  she  looked  at  him 
squarely  —  "and  people  who  have  children,  but 
are  not  married.  It  all  rather  hurts." 

"All  knowledge  that  is  worth  while  hurts  in  the 
getting." 

Sidney  got  up  and  wandered  around  the  room, 
touching  its  little  familiar  objects  with  tender  hands. 
K.  watched  her.  There  was  this  curious  element  in 
his  love  for  her,  that  when  he  was  with  her  it  took 
on  the  guise  of  friendship  and  deceived  even  himself. 
It  was  only  in  the  lonely  hours  that  it  took  on  truth, 
became  a  hopeless  yearning  for  the  touch  of  her 
hand  or  a  glance  from  her  clear  eyes. 

Sidney,  having  picked  up  the  minister's  picture, 

107 


K 


replaced  it  absently,  so  that  Eve  stood  revealed  in 
all  her  pre-apple  innocence. 

"There  is  something  else,"  she  said  absently.  "  I 
cannot  talk  it  over  with  mother.  There  is  a  girl  in 
the  ward — " 

"A  patient?" 

uYes.  She  is  quite  pretty.  She  has  had  typhoid, 
but  she  is  a  little  better.  She '  s — not  a  good  person . ' ' 

"I  see." 

"At  first  I  could  n't  bear  to  go  near  her.  I  shivered 
when  I  had  to  straighten  her  bed.  I  —  I'm  being 
very  frank,  but  I  've  got  to  talk  this  out  with  some 
one.  I  worried  a  lot  about  it,  because,  although  at 
first  I  hated  her,  now  I  don't.  I  rather  like  her." 

She  looked  at  K.  defiantly,  but  there  was  no  dis- 
approval in  his  eyes. 

"Yes." 

"Well,  this  is  the  question.  She's  getting  better. 
She  '11  be  able  to  go  out  soon.  Don't  you  think  some- 
thing ought  to  be  done  to  keep  her  from  —  going 
back?" 

There  was  a  shadow  in  K.'s  eyes  now.  She  was 
so  young  to  face  all  this;  and  yet,  since  face  it  she 
must,  how  much  better  to  have  her  do  it  squarely. 

" Does  she  want  to  change  her  mode  of  life?" 

"  I  don't  know,  of  course.  There  are  some  things 
one  does  n't  discuss.  She  cares  a  great  deal  for  some 
man.  The  other  day  I  propped  her  up  in  bed  and 
gave  her  a  newspaper,  and  after  a  while  I  found  the 
paper  on  the  floor,  and  she  was  crying.  The  other 

108 


patients  avoid  her,  and  it  was  some  time  before  I 
noticed  it.  The  next  day  she  told  me  that  the  man 
was  going  to  marry  some  one  else.  '  He  would  n't 
marry  me,  of  course/  she  said;  'but  he  might  have 
told  me.'" 

Le  Moyne  did  his  best,  that  afternoon  in  the  little 
parlor,  to  provide  Sidney  with  a  philosophy  to  carry 
her  through  her  training.  He  told  her  that  certain 
responsibilities  were  hers,  but  that  she  could  not 
reform  the  world.  Broad  charity,  tenderness,  and 
healing  were  her  province. 

"Help  them  all  you  can,"  he  finished,  feeling  in- 
adequate and  hopelessly  didactic.  "Cure  them; 
send  them  out  with  a  smile ;  and  —  leave  the  rest  to 
the  Almighty." 

Sidney  was  resigned,  but  not  content.  Newly 
facing  the  evil  of  the  world,  she  was  a  rampant  re- 
former at  once.  Only  the  arrival  of  Christine  and 
her  fiance  saved  his  philosophy  from  complete  rout. 
He  had  time  for  a  question  between  the  ring  of  the 
bell  and  Katie's  deliberate  progress  from  the  kitchen 
to  the  front  door. 

"How  about  the  surgeon,  young  Wilson?  Do  you 
ever  see  him?"  His  tone  was  carefully  casual. 

"Almost  every  day.  He  stops  at  the  door  of  the 
ward  and  speaks  to  me.  It  makes  me  quite  distin- 
guished, for  a  probationer.  Usually,  you  know,  the 
staff  never  even  see  the  probationers." 

"And  —  the  glamour  persists?"  He  smiled  down 
at  her. 

109 


"I  think  he  is  very  wonderful,"  said  Sidney 
valiantly. 

Christine  Lorenz,  while  not  large,  seemed  to  fill 
the  little  room.  Her  voice,  which  was  frequent  and 
penetrating,  her  smile,  which  was  wide  and  showed 
very  white  teeth  that  were  a  trifle  large  for  beauty, 
her  all-embracing  good  nature,  dominated  the  entire 
lower  floor.  K.,  who  had  met  her  before,  retired  into 
silence  and  a  corner.  Young  Howe  smoked  a  cigar- 
ette in  the  hall. 

''You  poor  thing !"  said  Christine,  and  put  her 
cheek  against  Sidney's.  "Why,  you're  positively 
thin !  Palmer  gives  you  a  month  to  tire  of  it  all ;  but 
I  said—" 

"I  take  that  back,"  Palmer  spoke  indolently 
from  the  corridor.  "There  is  the  look  of  willing 
martyrdom  in  her  face.  Where  is  Reginald?  I've 
brought  some  nuts  for  him." 

"Reginald  is  back  in  the  woods  again." 

"Now,  look  here,"  he  said  solemnly.  "When  we 
arranged  about  these  rooms,  there  were  certain 
properties  that  went  with  them  —  the  lady  next 
door  who  plays  Paderewski's  'Minuet'  six 'hours  a 
day,  and  K.  here,  and  Reginald.  If  you  must  take 
something  to  the  woods,  why  not  the  minuet  per- 
son?" 

Howe  was  a  good-looking  man,  thin,  smooth- 
shaven,  aggressively  well  dressed.  This  Sunday 
afternoon,  in  a  cutaway  coat  and  high  hat,  with  an 
English  malacca  stick,  he  was  just  a  little  out  of 

no 


the  picture.  The  Street  said  that  he  was  "wild," 
and  that  to  get  into  the  Country  Club  set  Christine 
was  losing  more  than  she  was  gaining. 

Christine  had  stepped  out  on  the  balcony,  and 
was  speaking  to  K.  just  inside. 

"It's  rather  a  queer  way  to  live,  of  course,"  she 
said.  "But  Palmer  is  a  pauper,  practically.  We 
are  going  to  take  our  meals  at  home  for  a  while. 
You  see,  certain  things  that  we  want  we  can't  have 
if  we  take  a  house  —  a  car,  for  instance.  We'll  need 
one  for  running  out  to  the  Country  Club  to  dinner. 
Of  course,  unless  father  gives  me  one  for  a  wedding 
present,  it  will  be  a  cheap  one.  And  we're  getting 
the  Rosenfeld  boy  to  drive  it.  He's  crazy  about 
machinery,  and  he'll  come  for  practically  nothing." 

K.  had  never  known  a  married  couple  to  take  two 
rooms  and  go  to  the  bride's  mother's  for  meals  in 
order  to  keep  a  car.  He  looked  faintly  dazed.  Also, 
certain  sophistries  of  his  former  world  about  a  cheap 
chauffeur  being  costly  in  the  end  rose  in  his  mind 
and  were  carefully  suppressed. 

"You'll  find  a  car  a  great  comfort,  I'm  sure," 
he  said  politely. 

Christine  considered  K.  rather  distinguished.  She 
liked  his  graying  hair  and  steady  eyes,  and  insisted 
on  considering  his  shabbiness  a  pose.  She  was  con- 
scious that  she  made  a  pretty  picture  in  the  French 
window,  and  preened  herself  like  a  bright  bird. 

"You'll  come  out  with  us  now  and  then,  I  hope." 

"Thank  you." 

in 


"Isn't  it  odd  to  think  that  we  are  going  to  be 
practically  one  family!" 

''Odd,  but  very  pleasant." 

He  caught  the  flash  of  Christine's  smile,  and 
smiled  back.  Christine  was  glad  she  had  decided  to 
take  the  rooms,  glad  that  K.  lived  there.  This  thing 
of  marriage  being  the  end  of  all  things  was  absurd. 
A  married  woman  should  have  men  friends;  they 
kept  her  up.  She  would  take  him  to  the  Country 
Club.  The  women  would  be  mad  to  know  him.  How 
clear-cut  his  profile  was ! 

Across  the  Street,  the  Rosenfeld  boy  had  stopped 
by  Dr.  Wilson's  car,  and  was  eyeing  it  with  the 
cool,  appraising  glance  of  the  street  boy  whose  sole 
knowledge  of  machinery  has  been  acquired  from 
the  clothes-washer  at  home.  Joe  Drummond,  eyes 
carefully  ahead,  went  up  the  Street.  Tillie,  at  Mrs. 
McKee's,  stood  in  the  doorway  and  fanned  herself 
with  her  apron.  Max  Wilson  came  out  of  the  house 
and  got  into  his  car.  For  a  minute,  perhaps,  all  the 
actors,  save  Carlotta  and  Dr.  Ed,  were  on  the  stage. 
It  was  that  l>He  noir  of  the  playwright,  an  ensemble  ; 
K.  Le  Moyne  and  Sidney,  Palmer  Howe,  Christine^ 
Tillie,  the  younger  Wilson,  Joe,  even  young  Rosen- 
feld, all  within  speaking  distance,  almost  touching 
distance,  gathered  within  and  about  the  little  house 
on  a  side  street  which  K.  at  first  grimly  and  now  ten- 
derly called  "home." 


CHAPTER  X 

ON  Monday  morning,  shortly  after  the  McKee  pro- 
longed breakfast  hour  was  over,  a  small  man  of  per- 
haps fifty,  with  iron-gray  hair  and  a  sparse  goatee, 
made  his  way  along  the  Street.  He  moved  with  the 
air  of  one  having  a  definite  destination  but  a  by  no 
means  definite  reception. 

As  he  walked  along  he  eyed  with  a  professional 
glance  the  ailanthus  and  maple  trees  which,  with 
an  occasional  poplar,  lined  the  Street.  At  the  door 
of  Mrs.  McKee's  boarding-house  he  stopped.  Owing 
to  a  slight  change  in  the  grade  of  the  street,  the 
McKee  house  had  no  stoop,  but  one  flat  doorstep. 
Thus  it  was  possible  to  ring  the  doorbell  from  the 
pavement,  and  this  the  stranger  did.  It  gave  him  a 
curious  appearance  of  being  ready  to  cut  and  run 
if  things  were  unfavorable. 

For  a  moment  things  were  indeed  unfavorable. 
Mrs.  McKee  herself  opened  the  door.  She  recog- 
nized him  at  once,  but  no  smile  met  the  nervous  one 
that  formed  itself  on  the  stranger's  face. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  is  it?" 

" It's  me,  Mrs.  McKee." 

"Well?" 

He  made  a  conciliatory  effort. 

"I  was  thinking,  as  I  came  along,"  he  said,  "that 


you  and  the  neighbors  had  better  get  after  these 
here  caterpillars.    Look  at  them  maples,  now." 

"  If  you  want  to  see  Tillie,  she's  busy." 

"  I  only  want  to  say  how-d  'ye-cio.  I  'm  just  on  my 
way  through  town." 

" I'll  say  it  for  you." 

A  certain  doggedness  took  the  place  of  his  tenta- 
tive smile. 

" I'll  say  it  myself,  I  guess.  I  don't  want  any  un- 
pleasantness, but  I  've  come  a  good  ways  to  see  her, 
and  I'll  hang  around  until  I  do." 

Mrs.  McKee  knew  herself  routed,  and  retreated 
to  the  kitchen. 

"You're  wanted  out  front,"  she  said. 

"Who  is  it?" 

"Never  mind.  Only,  my  advice  to  you  is,  don't 
be  a  fool." 

Tillie  went  suddenly  pale.  The  hands  with  which 
she  tied  a  white  apron  over  her  gingham  one  were 
shaking. 

Her  visitor  had  accepted  the  open  door  as  per- 
mission to  enter  and  was  standing  in  the  hall. 

He  went  rather  white  himself  when  he  saw  Tillie 
coming  toward  him  down  the  hall.  He  knew  that  for 
Tillie  this  visit  would  mean  that  he  was  free  —  and 
he  was  not  free.  Sheer  terror  of  his  errand  filled  him. 

"Well,  here  I  am,  Tillie." 

"All  dressed  up  and  highly  perfumed!"  said  poor 
Tillie,  with  the  question  in  her  eyes.  "You're  quite 
a  stranger,  Mr.  Sch witter." 

114 


"I  was  passing  through,  and  I  just  thought  I'd 
call  around  and  tell  you  —  My  God,  Tillie,  I  'm 
glad  to  see  you!" 

She  made  no  reply,  but  opened  the  door  into  the 
cool  and  shaded  little  parlor.  He  followed  her  in 
and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

"I  could  n't  help  it.    I  know  I  promised.1' 

"Then  she—?" 

" She's  still  living.  Playing  with  paper  dolls  — 
that's  the  latest." 

Tillie  sat  down  suddenly  on  one  of  the  stiff  chairs. 
Her  lips  were  as  white  as  her  face. 

"I  thought,  when  I  saw  you  — " 

"I  was  afraid  you'd  think  that." 

Neither  spoke  for  a  moment.  Tillie's  hands 
twisted  nervously  in  her  lap.  Mr.  Schwitter's  eyes 
were  fixed  on  the  window,  which  looked  back  on  the 
McKee  yard. 

"That  spiraea  back  there's  not  looking  very 
good.  If  you'll  save  the  cigar  butts  around  here 
and  put  'em  in  water,  and  spray  it,  you  '11  kill  the 
lice." 

Tillie  found  speech  at  last. 

"I  don't  know  why  you  come  around  bothering 
me,"  she  said  dully.  "I've  been  getting  along  all 
right;  now  you  come  and  upset  everything." 

Mr.  Schwitter  rose  and  took  a  step  toward  her. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you  why  I  came.  Look  at  me.  I 
ain't  getting  any  younger,  am  I?  Time's  going 
on,  and  I'm  wanting  you  all  the  time.  And  what 


K 


am  I  getting?    What've  I  got  out  of  life,  anyhow? 
I'm  lonely,  Tillie!" 

''What's  that  got  to  do  with  me?" 

"You're  lonely,  too,  ain't  you?" 

"Me?  I  have  n't  got  time  to  be.  And,  anyhow, 
there's  always  a  crowd  here." 

"You  can  be  lonely  in  a  crowd,  and  I  guess  - 
is  there  any  one  around  here  you  like  better  than 
me?" 

"Oh,  what's  the  use!"  cried  poor  Tillie.  "We 
can  talk  our  heads  off  and  not  get  anywhere.  You  've 
got  a  wife  living,  and,  unless  you  intend  to  do  away 
with  her,  I  guess  that's  all  there  is  to  it." 

"  Is  that  all,  Tillie?  Have  n't  you  got  a  right  to  be 
happy?" 

She  was  quick  of  wit,  and  she  read  his  tone  as 
well  as  his  words. 

"You  get  out  of  here  —  and  get  out  quick!" 

She  had  jumped  to  her  feet;  but  he  only  looked  at 
her  with  understanding  eyes. 

"I  know,"  he  said.  "That's  the  way  I  thought 
of  it  at  first.  Maybe  I  've  just  got  used  to  the  idea, 
but  it  does  n't  seem  so  bad  to  me  now.  Here  are 
you,  drudging  for  other  people  when  you  ought  to 
have  a  place  all  your  own  —  and  not  gettin'  younger 
any  more  than  I  am.  Here's  both  of  us  lonely.  I  'd 
be  a  good  husband  to  you,  Till  —  because,  what- 
ever it  'd  be  in  law,  I  'd  be  your  husband  before  God." 

Tillie  cowered  against  the  door,  her  eyes  on  his. 
Here  before  her,  embodied  in  this  man,  stood  all  that 

116 


she  had  wanted  and  never  had.  He  meant  a  home, 
tenderness,  children,  perhaps.  He  turned  away  from 
the  look  in  her  eyes  and  stared  out  of  the  front 
window. 

"Them  poplars  out  there  ought  to  be  taken  away," 
he  said  heavily.  "They're  hell  on  sewers." 

Tillie  found  her  voice  at  last:  — 

"I  couldn't  do  it,  Mr.  Schwitter.  I  guess  I'm  a 
coward.  Maybe  I' 11  be  sorry." 

"  Perhaps,  if  you  got  used  to  the  idea  — " 

"What's  that  to  do  with  the  right  and  wrong 
of  it?" 

"Maybe  I  'm  queer.  It  don't  seem  like  wrongdo- 
ing to  me.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  Lord  would  make 
an  exception  of  us  if  He  knew  the  circumstances. 
Perhaps,  after  you  get  used  to  the  idea —  What 
I  thought  was  like  this.  I  Ve  got  a  little  farm  about 
seven  miles  from  the  city  limits,  and  the  tenant  on 
it  says  that  nearly  every  Sunday  somebody  motors 
out  from  town  and  wants  a  chicken-and-waffle  sup- 
per. There  ain't  much  in  the  nursery  business  any 
more.  These  landscape  fellows  buy  their  stuff  di- 
rect, and  the  middleman's  out.  I  Ve  got  a  good  or- 
chard, and  there's  a  spring,  so  I  could  put  running 
water  in  the  house.  I  'd  be  good  to  you,  Tillie,  — 
I  swear  it.  It'd  be  just  the  same  as  marriage.  No- 
body need  know  it." 

"You'd  know  it.   You  would  n't  respect  me." 

"Don't  a  man  respect  a  woman  that's  got  cour- 
age enough  to  give  up  everything  for  him?" 


Tillie  was  crying  softly  into  her  apron.  He  put  a 
work-hardened  hand  on  her  head. 

"It  is  n't  as  if  I'd  run  around  after  women,"  he 
said.  "You're  the  only  one,  since  Maggie — "  He 
drew  a  long  breath.  " I'll  give  you  time  to  think  it 
over.  Suppose  I  stop  in  to-morrow  morning.  It 
does  n't  commit  you  to  anything  to  talk  it  over." 

There  had  been  no  passion  in  the  interview,  and 
there  was  none  in  the  touch  of  his  hand.  He  was  not 
young,  and  the  tragic  loneliness  of  approaching  old 
age  confronted  him.  He  was  trying  to  solve  his 
problem  and  Tillie's,  and  what  he  had  found  was  no 
solution,  but  a  compromise. 

"To-morrow  morning,  then,"  he  said  quietly,  and 
went  out  the  door. 

All  that  hot  August  morning  Tillie  worked  in  a 
daze.  Mrs.  McKee  watched  her  and  said  nothing. 
She  interpreted  the  girl's  white  face  and  set  lips  as 
the  result  of  having  had  to  dismiss  Schwitter  again, 
and  looked  for  time  to  bring  peace,  as  it  had  done 
before. 

Le  Moyne  came  late  to  his  midday  meal.  For 
once,  the  mental  anaesthesia  of  endless  figures  had 
failed  him.  On  his  way  home  he  had  drawn  his  small 
savings  from  the  bank,  and  mailed  them,  in  cash  and 
registered,  to  a  back  street  in  the  slums  of  a  distant 
city.  He  had  done  this  before,  and  always  with  a 
feeling  of  exaltation,  as  if,  for  a  time  at  least,  the 
burden  he  carried  was  lightened.  But  to-day  he  ex- 

118 


K. 


perienced  no  compensatory  relief.  Life  was  dull 
and  stale  to  him,  effort  ineffectual.  At  thirty  a  man 
should  look  back  with  tenderness,  forward  with 
hope.  K.  Le  Moyne  dared  not  look  back,  and  had 
no  desire  to  look  ahead  into  empty  years. 

Although  he  ate  little,  the  dining-room  was  empty 
when  he  finished.  Usually  he  had  some  cheerful 
banter  for  Tillie,  to  which  she  responded  in  kind. 
But,  what  with  the  heat  and  with  heaviness  of 
spirit,  he  did  not  notice  her  depression  until  he 
rose. 

"Why,  you're  not  sick,  are  you,  Tillie?" 

"Me?   Oh,  no.    Low  in  my  mind,  I  guess." 

11  It's  the  heat.  It's  fearful.  Look  here.  If  I  send 
you  two  tickets  to  a  roof  garden  where  there's  a 
variety  show,  can't  you  take  a  friend  and  go  to- 
night?" 

"Thanks;  I  guess  I'll  not  go  out." 

Then,  unexpectedly,  she  bent  her  head  against  a 
chair-back  and  fell  to  silent  crying.  K.  let  her  cry 
for  a  moment.  Then:  — 

"  Now  —  tell  me  about  it." 

"I'm  just  worried;  that's  all." 

"Let's  see  if  we  can't  fix  up  the  worries.  Come, 
now,  out  with  them!" 

"I'm  a  wicked  woman,  Mr.  Le  Moyne." 

"Then  I'm  the  person  to  tell  it  to.  I  —  I'm 
pretty  much  of  a  lost  soul  myself." 

He  put  an  arm  over  her  shoulders  and  drew  her 
up,  facing  him. 

119 


"Suppose  we  go  into  the  parlor  and  talk  it  out. 
I'll  bet  things  are  not  as  bad  as  you  imagine." 

But  when,  in  the  parlor  that  had  seen  Mr.  Schwit- 
ter's  strange  proposal  of  the  morning,  Tillie  poured 
out  her  story,  K.'s  face  grew  grave. 

"The  wicked  part  is  that  I  want  to  go  with  him," 
she  finished.  "  I  keep  thinking  about  being  out  in 
the  country,  and  him  coming  in  to  supper,  and 
everything  nice  for  him  and  me  cleaned  up  and  wait- 
ing —  O  my  God !  I  Ve  always  been  a  good  woman 
until  now." 

"I  —  I  understand  a  great  deal  better  than  you 
think  I  do.  You're  not  wicked.  The  only  thing 
is—" 

"Goon.    Hit  me  with  it." 

"You  might  go  on  and  be  very  happy.  And  as 
for  the  —  for  his  wife,  it  won't  do  her  any  harm. 
It's  only  —  if  there  are  children." 

"  I  know.  I  've  thought  of  that.  But  I  'm  so  crazy 
for  children!" 

•"Exactly.  So  you  should  be.  But  when  they 
come,  and  you  cannot  give  them  a  name  —  don't 
you  see?  I'm  not  preaching  morality.  God  forbid 
that  I  —  But  no  happiness  is  built  on  a  foundation 
of  wrong.  It's  been  tried  before,  Tillie,  and  it 
does  n't  pan  out." 

He  was  conscious  of  a  feeling  of  failure  when  he 
left  her  at  last.  She  had  acquiesced  in  what  he  said, 
knew  he  was  right,  and  even  promised  to  talk  to 
him  again  before  making  a  decision  one  way  or 

120 


the  other.  But  against  his  abstractions  of  conduct 
and  morality  there  was  pleading  in  Tillie  the 
hungry  mother-heart ;  law  and  creed  and  early  train- 
ing were  fighting  against  the  strongest  instinct  of 
the  race.  It  was  a  losing  battle. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  hot  August  days  dragged  on.  Merciless  sunlight 
beat  in  through  the  slatted  shutters  of  ward  win- 
dows. At  night,  from  the  roof  to  which  the  nurses 
retired  after  prayers  for  a  breath  of  air,  lower  sur- 
rounding roofs  were  seen  to  be  covered  with  sleepers. 
Children  dozed  precariously  on  the  edge  of  eternity; 
men  and  women  sprawled  in  the  grotesque  postures 
of  sleep. 

There  was  a  sort  of  feverish  irritability  in  the  air. 
Even  the  nurses,  stoically  unmindful  of  bodily  dis- 
comfort, spoke  curtly  or  not  at  all.  Miss  Dana,  in 
Sidney's  ward,  went  down  with  a  low  fever,  and  for 
a  day  or  so  Sidney  and  Miss  Grange  got  along  as 
best  they  could.  Sidney  worked  like  two  or  more, 
performed  marvels  of  bed-making,  learned  to  give 
alcohol  baths  for  fever  with  the  maximum  of  re- 
sult and  the  minimum  of  time,  even  made  rounds 
with  a  member  of  the  staff  and  came  through  credit- 
ably. 

Dr.  Ed  Wilson  had  sent  a  woman  patient  into 
the  ward,  arid  his  visits  were  the  breath  of  life  to  the 
girl. 

"How 're  they  treating  you?'*  he  asked  her,  one 
day,  abruptly. 

"Very  well." 

"  Look  at  me  squarely.  You're  pretty  and  you  're 
122 


young.  Some  of  them  will  try  to  take  it  out  of  you. 
That's  human  nature.  Has  any  one  tried  it  yet?" 

Sidney  looked  distressed. 

"Positively,  no.  It's  been  hot,  and  of  course  it's 
troublesome  to  tell  me  everything.  I  —  I  think 
they're  all  very  kind." 

He  reached  out  a  square,  competent  hand,  and 
put  it  over  hers. 

"We  miss  you  in  the  Street,"  he  said.  "It's  all 
sort  of  dead  there  since  you  left.  Joe  Drummond 
does  n't  moon  up  and  down  any  more,  for  one  thing. 
What  was  wrong  between  you  and  Joe,  Sidney?" 

"I  did  n't  want  to  marry  him;  that's  all." 

"That's  considerable.  The  boy's  taking  it  hard." 

Then,  seeing  her  face:  — 

"But  you're  right,  of  course.  Don't  marry  any 
one  unless  you  can't  live  without  him.  That's  been 
my  motto,  and  here  I  am,  still  single." 

He  went  out  and  down  the  corridor.  He  had 
known  Sidney  all  his  life.  During  the  lonely  times 
when  Max  was  at  college  and  in  Europe,  he  had 
watched  her  grow  from  a  child  to  a  young  girl.  He 
did  not  suspect  for  a  moment  that  in  that  secret 
heart  of  hers  he  sat  newly  enthroned,  in  a  glow  of 
white  light,  as  Max's  brother;  that  the  mere  thought 
that  he  lived  in  Max's  house  (it  was,  of  course, 
Max's  house  to  her),  sat  at  Max's  breakfast  table, 
could  see  him  whenever  he  wished,  made  the  touch 
of  his  hand  on  hers  a  benediction  and  a  caress. 

Sidney  finished  folding  linen  and  went  back  to  the 
123 


ward.  It  was  Friday  and  a  visiting  day.  Almost 
every  bed  had  its  visitor  beside  it;  but  Sidney,  run- 
ning an  eye  over  the  ward,  found  the  girl  of  whom 
she  had  spoken  to  Le  Moyne  quite  alone.  She  was 
propped  up  in  bed,  reading;  but  at  each  new  step  in 
the  corridor  hope  would  spring  into  her  eyes  and 
die  again. 

"Want  anything,  Grace?" 

"Me?  I'm  all  right.  If  these  people  would  only 
get  out  and  let  me  read  in  peace  —  Say,  sit  down  and 
talk  to  me,  won't  you?  It  beats  the  mischief  the 
way  your  friends  forget  you  when  you  're  laid  up  in 
a  place  like  this." 

"People  can't  always  come  at  visiting  hours. 
Besides,  it's  hot." 

"A  girl  I  knew  was  sick  here  last  year,  and  it 
was  n't  too  hot  for  me  to  trot  in  twice  a  week  with 
a  bunch  of  flowers  for  her.  Do  you  think  she's  been 
here  once?  She  has  n't." 

Then,  suddenly:  — 

"  You  know  that  man  I  told  you  about  the  other 
day?" 

Sidney  nodded.  The  girl's  anxious  eyes  were  on 
her. 

11  It  was  a  shock  to  me,  that's  all.  I  did  n't  want 
you  to  think  I'd  break  my  heart  over  any  fellow. 
All  I  meant  was,  I  wished  he'd  let  me  know." 

Her  eyes  searched  Sidney's.  They  looked  unnatu- 
rally large  and  somber  in  her  face.  Her  hair  had 
been  cut  short,  and  her  nightgown,  open  at  the 

124 


neck,  showed  her  thin  throat  and  prominent  clav- 
icles. 

"You're  from  the  city,  aren't  you,  Miss  Page?" 

"Yes." 

"You  told  me  the  street,  but  I've  forgotten  it." 

Sidney  repeated  the  name  of  the  Street,  and 
slipped  a  fresh  pillow  under  the  girl's  head. 

"The  evening  paper  says  there's  a  girl  going  to 
be  married  on  your  street." 

"Really!  Oh,  I  think  I  know.  A  friend  of  mine 
is  going  to  be  married.  Was  the  name  Lorenz?" 

"The  girl's  name  was  Lorenz.  I  —  I  don't  remem- 
ber the  man's  name." 

"She  is  going  to  marry  a  Mr.  Howe,"  said  Sidney 
briskly.  "Now,  how  do  you  feel?  More  comfy?" 

"Fine!  I  suppose  you'll  be  going  to  that  wed- 
ding?" 

"If  I  ever  get  time  to  have  a  dress  made,  I'll 
surely  go." 

Toward  six  o'clock  the  next  morning,  the  night 
nurse  was  making  out  her  reports.  On  one  record, 
which  said  at  the  top,  "Grace  Irving,  age  19,"  and 
an  address  which,  to  the  initiated,  told  all  her  story, 
the  night  nurse  wrote:  — 

"Did  not  sleep  at  all  during  night.  Face  set 
and  eyes  staring,  but  complains  of  no  pain.  Refused 
milk  at  eleven  and  three." 

Carlotta  Harrison,  back  from  her  vacation,  re- 
ported for  duty  the  next  morning,  and  was  assigned 
to  E  ward,  which  was  Sidney's.  She  gave  Sidney  a 

125 


curt  little  nod,  and  proceeded  to  change  the  entire 
routine  with  the  thoroughness  of  a  Central  American 
revolutionary  president.  Sidney,  who  had  yet  to 
learn  that  with  some  people  authority  can  only  as- 
sert itself  by  change,  found  herself  confused,  at  sea, 
half  resentful. 

Once  she  ventured  a  protest :  — 

"  I  Ve  been  taught  to  do  it  that  way,  Miss  Harri- 
son. If  my  method  is  wrong,  show  me  what  you 
want,  and  I'll  do  my  best." 

"I  am  not  responsible  for  what  you  have  been 
taught.  And  you  will  not  speak  back  when  you  are 
spoken  to." 

Small  as  the  incident  was,  it  marked  a  change  in 
Sidney's  position  in  the  ward.  She  got  the  worst 
off-duty  of  the  day,  or  none.  Small  humiliations 
were  hers:  late  meals,  disagreeable  duties,  endless 
and  often  unnecessary  tasks.  Even  Miss  Grange, 
now  reduced  to  second  place,  remonstrated  with 
her  senior. 

"  I  think  a  certain  amount  of  severity  is  good  foi 
a  probationer,"  she  said,  "but  you  are  brutal,  Mis? 
Harrison." 

" She's  stupid." 

"She's  not  at  all  stupid.  She's  going  to  be  one 
of  the  best  nurses  in  the  house." 

"Report  me,  then.  Tell  the  Head  I'm  abusing 
Dr.  Wilson's  pet  probationer,  that  I  don't  always 
say  '  please '  when  I  ask  her  to  change  a  bed  or  take 
a  temperature." 

126 


K 


Miss  Grange  was  not  lacking  in  keenness.  She 
did  not  go  to  the  Head,  which  is  unethical  under  any 
circumstances;  but  gradually  there  spread  through 
the  training-school  a  story  that  Carlotta  Harrison 
was  jealous  of  the  new  Page  girl,  Dr.  Wilson's 
protegee.  Things  were  still  highly  unpleasant  in  the 
ward,  but  they  grew  much  better  when  Sidney  was 
off  duty.  She  was  asked  to  join  a  small  class  that 
was  studying  French  at  night.  As  ignorant  of  the 
cause  of  her  popularity  as  of  the  reason  of  her  per- 
secution, she  went  steadily  on  her  way. 

And  she  was  gaining  every  day.  Her  mind  was 
forming.  She  was  learning  to  think  for  herself. 
For  the  first  time,  she  was  facing  problems  and  de- 
manding an  answer.  Why  must  there  be  Grace 
Irvings  in  the  world?  Why  must  the  healthy  babies 
of  the  obstetric  ward  go  out  to  the  slums  and  come 
back,  in  months  or  years,  crippled  for  the  great  fight 
by  the  handicap  of  their  environment,  rickety, 
tuberculous,  twisted?  Why  need  the  huge  mills  feed 
the  hospitals  daily  with  injured  men? 

And  there  were  other  things  that  she  thought  of. 
Every  night,  on  her  knees  in  the  nurses'  parlor  at 
prayers,  she  promised,  if  she  were  accepted  as  a 
nurse,  to  try  never  to  become  calloused,  never  to 
regard  her  patients  as  "cases,"  never  to  allow  the 
cleanliness  and  routine  of  her  ward  to  delay  a  cup 
of  water  to  the  thirsty,  or  her  arms  to  a  sick  child. 

On  the  whole,  the  world  was  good,  she  found. 
And,  of  all  the  good  things  in  it,  the  best  was  serv- 

127 


ice.  True,  there  were  hot  days  and  restless  nights, 
weary  feet,  and  now  and  then  a  heartache.  There 
was  Miss  Harrison,  too.  But  to  offset  these  there 
was  the  sound  of  Dr.  Max's  step  in  the  corridor,  and 
his  smiling  nod  from  the  door;  there  was  a  "God 
bless  you"  now  and  then  for  the  comfort  she  gave; 
there  were  wonderful  nights  on  the  roof  under  the 
stars,  until  K.'s  little  watch  warned  her  to  bed 

While  Sidney  watched  the  stars  from  her  hospital 
roof,  while  all  around  her  the  slum  children,  on 
other  roofs,  fought  for  the  very  breath  of  life,  others 
who  knew  and  loved  her  watched  the  stars,  too.  K. 
was  having  his  own  troubles  in  those  days.  Late  at 
night,  when  Anna  and  Harriet  had  retired,  he  sat 
on  the  balcony  and  thought  of  many  things.  Anna 
Page  was  not  well.  He  had  noticed  that  her  lips 
were  rather  blue,  and  had  called  in  Dr.  Ed.  It  was 
valvular  heart  disease.  Anna  was  not  to  be  told,  or 
Sidney.  It  was  Harriet's  ruling. 

"Sidney  can't  help  any,"  said  Harriet,  "and  for 
Heaven's  sake  let  her  have  her  chance.  Anna  may 
live  for  years.  You  know  her  as  well  as  I  do.  If  you 
tell  her  anything  at  all,  she'll  have  Sidney  here, 
waiting  on  her  hand  and  foot." 

And  Le  Moyne,  fearful  of  urging  too  much  because 
his  own  heart  was  crying  out  to  have  the  girl  back, 
assented. 

Then,  K.  was  anxious  about  Joe.  The  boy  did  not 
seem  to  get  over  the  thing  the  way  he  should.  Now 

128 


and  then  Le  Moyne,  resuming  his  old  habit  of  weary- 
ing himself  into  sleep,  would  walk  out  into  the  coun- 
try. On  one  such  night  he  had  overtaken  Joe, 
tramping  along  with  his  head  down. 

Joe  had  not  wanted  his  company,  had  plainly 
sulked.  But  Le  Moyne  had  persisted. 

"1*11  not  talk,"  he  said;  "but,  since  we're  going 
the  same  way,  we  might  as  well  walk  together." 

But  after  a  time  Joe  had  talked,  after  all.  It  was 
not  much  at  first  —  a  feverish  complaint  about  the 
heat,  and  that  if  there  was  trouble  in  Mexico  he 
thought  he'd  go. 

"Wait  until  fall,  if  you're  thinking  of  it,"  K.  ad- 
vised. "This  is  tepid  compared  with  what  you '11  get 
down  there." 

"I've  got  to  get  away  from  here." 

K.  nodded  understandingly.  Since  the  scene  at  the 
White  Springs  Hotel,  both  knew  that  no  explanation 
was  necessary. 

"  It  is  n't  so  much  that  I  mind  her  turning  me 
down,"  Joe  said,  after  a  silence.  "A  girl  can't  marry 
all  the  men  who  want  her.  But  I  don't  like  this  hos- 
pital idea.  I  don't  understand  it.  She  did  n't  have 
to  go.  Sometimes"  —  he  turned  bloodshot  eyes  on 
Le  Moyne  —  "I  think  she  went  because  she  was 
crazy  about  somebody  there." 

"She  went  because  she  wanted  to  be  useful." 

"She  could  be  useful  at  home." 

For  almost  twenty  minutes  they  tramped  on  with- 
out speech.  They  had  made  a  circle,  and  the  lights 

129 


of  the  city  were  close  again.  K.  stopped  and  put  a 
kindly  hand  on  Joe's  shoulder. 

"  A  man 's  got  to  stand  up  under  a  thing  like  this, 
you  know.  I  mean,  it  must  n't  be  a  knockout.  Keep- 
ing busy  is  a  darned  good  method." 

Joe  shook  himself  free,  but  without  resentment. 

"  I '11  tell  you  what's  eating  me  up,"  he  exploded. 
"  It's  Max  Wilson.  Don't  talk  to  me  about  her  go- 
ing to  the  hospital  to  be  useful.  She's  crazy  about 
him,  and  he's  as  crooked  as  a  dog's  hind  leg." 

"Perhaps.  But  it's  always  up  to  the  girl.  You 
know  that." 

He  felt  immeasurably  old  beside  Joe's  boyish 
blustering  —  old  and  rather  helpless. 

"  I  'm  watching  him.  Some  of  these  days  I  '11  get 
something  on  him.  Then  she'll  know  what  to  think 
of  her  hero!" 

"That's  not  quite  square,  is  it?" 

"He's  not  square." 

Joe  had  left  him  then,  wheeling  abruptly  off  into 
the  shadows.  K.  had  gone  home  alone,  rather  un- 
easy. There  seemed  to  be  mischief  in  the  very  air. 


CHAPTER  XII 

TILLIE  was  gone. 

Oddly  enough,  the  last  person  to  see  her  before 
she  left  was  Harriet  Kennedy.  On  the  third  day 
after  Mr.  Schwitter's  visit,  Harriet's  colored  maid 
had  announced  a  visitor. 

Harriet's  business  instinct  had  been  good.  She 
had  taken  expensive  rooms  in  a  good  location,  and 
furnished  them  with  the  assistance  of  a  decorator. 
Then  she  arranged  with  a  New  York  house  to  sell  her 
models  on  commission. 

Her  short  excursion  to  New  York  had  marked  for 
Harriet  the  beginning  of  a  new  heaven  and  a  new 
earth.  Here,  at  last,  she  found  people  speaking  her 
own  language.  She  ventured  a  suggestion  to  a  man- 
ufacturer, and  found  it  greeted,  not,  after  the  man- 
ner of  the  Street,  with  scorn,  but  with  approval  and 
some  surprise. 

"About  once  in  ten  years,"  said  Mr.  Arthurs,  "we 
have  a  woman  from  out  of  town  bring  us  a  sug- 
gestion that  is  both  novel  and  practical.  When  we 
find  people  like  that,  we  watch  them.  They  climb, 
madame,  —  climb." 

Harriet's  climbing  was  not  so  rapid  as  to  make  her 
dizzy ;  but  business  was  coming.  The  first  time  she 
made  a  price  of  seventy-five  dollars  for  an  evening 


gown,  she  went  out  immediately  after  and  took  a 
drink  of  water.   Her  throat  was  parched. 

She  began  to  learn  little  quips  of  the  feminine 
mind :  that  a  woman  who  can  pay  seventy- five  will 
pay  double  that  sum ;  that  it  is  not  considered  good 
form  to  show  surprise  at  a  dressmaker's  prices,  no 
matter  how  high  they  may  be;  that  long  mirrors 
and  artificial  lights  help  sales  —  no  woman  over 
thirty  but  was  grateful  for  her  pink-and-gray  room 
with  its  soft  lights.  And  Harriet  herself  conformed 
to  the  picture.  She  took  a  lesson  from  the  New 
York  modistes,  and  wore  trailing  black  gowns.  She 
strapped  her  thin  figure  into  the  best  corset  she 
could  get,  and  had  her  black  hair  marcelled  and 
dressed  high.  And,  because  she  was  a  lady  by  birth 
and  instinct,  the  result  was  not  incongruous,  but 
refined  and  rather  impressive. 

She  took  her  business  home  with  her  at  night,  lay 
awake  scheming,  and  wakened  at  dawn  to  find  fresh 
color  combinations  in  the  early  sky.  She  wakened 
early  because  she  kept  her  head  tied  up  in  a  towel, 
so  that  her  hair  need  be  done  only  three  times  a 
week.  That  and  the  corset  were  the  penalties  she 
paid.  Her  high-heeled  shoes  were  a  torment,  too; 
but  in  the  work-room  she  kicked  them  off. 

To  this  new  Harriet,  then,  came  Tillie  in  her  dis- 
tress. Tillie  was  rather  overwhelmed  at  first.  The 
Street  had  always  considered  Harriet  "proud/'  But 
Tillie' s  urgency  was  great,  her  methods  direct. 

"Why,  Tillie!"  said  Harriet. 
132 


"Yes'm." 

''Will  you  sit  down?" 

Tillie  sat.  She  was  not  daunted  now.  While  she 
worked  at  the  fingers  of  her  silk  gloves,  what  Harriet 
took  for  nervousness  was  pure  abstraction. 

"  It's  very  nice  of  you  to  come  to  see  me.  Do  you 
like  my  rooms?" 

Tillie  surveyed  the  rooms,  and  Harriet  caught  her 
first  full  view  of  her  face. 

"Is  there  anything  wrong?  Have  you  left  Mrs. 
McKee?" 

11 1  think  so.    I  came  to  talk  to  you  about  it." 

It  was  Harriet's  turn  to  be  overwhelmed. 

"She's  very  fond  of  you.  If  you  have  had  any 
words — " 

"  It 's  not  that.  I  'm  just  leaving.  I  'd  like  to  talk 
to  you,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"Certainly." 

Tillie  hitched  her  chair  closer. 

" I'm  up  against  something,  and  I  can't  seem  to 
make  up  my  mind.  Last  night  I  said  to  myself, 
'I've  got  to  talk  to  some  woman  who's  not  mar- 
ried, like  me,  and  not  as  young  as  she  used  to  be. 
There's  no  use  going  to  Mrs.  McKee:  she's  a  widow, 
and  would  n't  understand/  " 

Harriet's  voice  was  a  trifle  sharp  as  she  replied. 
She  never  lied  about  her  age,  but  she  preferred  to 
forget  it. 

"I  wish  you'd  tell  me  what  you're  getting  at." 

"It  ain't  the  sort  of  thing  to  come  to  too  sudden. 
133 


K 


But  it  's  like  this.  You  and  I  can  pretend  all  we  like, 
Miss  Harriet;  but  we're  not  getting  all  out  of  life 
that  the  Lord  meant  us  to  have.  You've  got  them 
wax  figures  instead  of  children,  and  I  have  mealers." 

A  little  spot  of  color  came  into  Harriet's  cheek. 
But  she  was  interested.  Regardless  of  the  corset,  she 
bent  forward. 

"Maybe  that's  true.   Goon." 

" I'm  almost  forty.  Ten  years  more  at  the  most, 
and  I  'm  through.  I  'm  slowing  up.  Can't  get  around 
the  tables  as  I  used  to.  Why,  yesterday  I  put  sugar 
into  Mr.  Le  Moyne's  coffee  —  well,  never  mind 
about  that.  Now  I  've  got  a  chance  to  get  a  home, 
with  a  good  man  to  look  after  me  —  I  like  him  pretty 
Well,  and  he  thinks  a  lot  of  me." 

"Mercy  sake,  Tillie!  You  are  going  to  get  mar- 
ried?" 

"No'm,"  said  Tillie;  "that's  it."  And  sat  silent 
for  a  moment. 

The  gray  curtains  with  their  pink  cording  swung 
gently  in  the  open  windows.  From  the  work-room 
came  the  distant  hum  of  a  sewing-machine  and  the 
sound  of  voices.  Harriet  sat  with  her  hands  in  her 
lap  and  listened  while  Tillie  poured  out  her  story.  The 
gates  were  down  now.  She  told  it  all,  consistently 
and  with  unconscious  pathos:  her  little  room  under 
the  roof  at  Mrs.  McKee's,  and  the  house  in  the  coun- 
try; her  loneliness,  and  the  loneliness  of  the  man; 
even  the  faint  stirrings  of  potential  motherhood,  her 
empty  arms,  her  advancing  age  —  all  this  she  knit 

134 


into  the  fabric  of  her  story  and  laid  at  Harriet  '•<* 
feet,  as  the  ancients  put  their  questions  to  their 
gods. 

Harriet  was  deeply  moved.  Too  much  that  Tillie 
poured  out  to  her  found  an  echo  in  her  own  breast. 
What  was  this  thing  she  was  striving  for  but  a  sub* 
stitute  for  the  real  things  of  life  —  love  and  tender* 
ness,  children,  a  home  of  her  own?  Quite  suddenly 
she  loathed  the  gray  carpet  on  the  floor,  the  pink 
chairs,  the  shaded  lamps.  Tillie  was  no  longer  the 
waitress  at  a  cheap  boarding-house.  She  loomed 
large,  potential,  courageous,  a  woman  who  held  life 
in  her  hands. 

"Why  don't  you  go  to  Mrs.  Rosenfeld?  She'w 
your  aunt,  is  n't  she?" 

"She  thinks  any  woman 's  a  fool  to  take  up  with  a 
man." 

"  You  're  giving  me  a  terrible  responsibility,  Tillie. 
if  you're  asking  my  advice." 

11  No  'm.  I  'm  asking  what  you  'd  do  if  it  happened 
to  you.  Suppose  you  had  no  people  that  cared  any- 
thing about  you,  nobody  to  disgrace,  and  all  your 
life  nobody  had  really  cared  anything  about  you. 
And  then  a  chance  like  this  came  along.  WThat 
would  you  do?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  poor  Harriet.  "  It  seems  ta 
me  —  I'm  afraid  I  'd  be  tempted.  It  does  seem  as 
if  a  woman  had  the  right  to  be  happy,  even  if  — " 

Her  own  words  frightened  her.  It  was  as  if  some 
hidden  self,  and  not  she,  had  spoken.  She  hastened 

135 


to  point  out  the  other  side  of  the  matter,  the  inse- 
curity of  it,  the  disgrace.  Like  K.,  she  insisted  that 
no  right  can  be  built  out  of  a  wrong.  Tillie  sat  and 
smoothed  her  gloves.  At  last,  when  Harriet  paused 
in  sheer  panic,  the  girl  rose. 

"I  know  how  you  feel,  and  I  don't  want  you  to 
take  the  responsibility  of  advising  me,"  she  said 
quietly.  "I  guess  my  mind  was  made  up  anyhow. 
But  before  I  did  it  I  just  wanted  to  be  sure  that  a 
decent  woman  would  think  the  way  I  do  about  it." 

And  so,  for  a  time,  Tillie  went  out  of  the  life  of  the 
Street  as  she  went  out  of  Harriet's  handsome  rooms, 
quietly,  unobtrusively,  with  calm  purpose  in  her 
eyes. 

There  were  other  changes  in  the  Street.  The 
Lorenz  house  was  being  painted  for  Christine's 
wedding.  Johnny  Rosenfeld,  not  perhaps  of  the 
Street  itself,  but  certainly  pertaining  to  it,  was  learn- 
ing to  drive  Palmer  Howe's  new  car,  in  mingled 
agony  and  bliss.  He  walked  along  the  Street,  not 
" right  foot,  left  foot,"  but  "brake  foot,  clutch  foot," 
and  took  to  calling  off  the  vintage  of  passing  cars. 
"So-and-So  1910,"  he  would  say,  with  contempt  in 
his  voice.  He  spent  more  than  he  could  afford  on  a 
large  streamer,  meant  to  be  fastened  across  the  rear 
of  the  automobile,  which  said,  "  Excuse  our  dust," 
and  was  inconsolable  when  Palmer  refused  to  let  him 
use  it. 

K.  had  yielded  to  Anna's  insistence,  and  was 
bonding  as  well  as  rooming  at  the  Page  house.  The 

136 


Street,  rather  snobbish  to  its  occasional  floating 
population,  was  accepting  and  liking  him.  It  found 
him  tender,  infinitely  human.  And  in  return  he 
found  that  this  seemingly  empty  eddy  into  which 
he  had  drifted  was  teeming  with  life.  He  busied 
himself  with  small  things,  and  found  his  outlook 
gradually  less  tinged  with  despair.  When  he  found 
himself  inclined  to  rail,  he  organized  a  baseball  club, 
and  sent  down  to  everlasting  defeat  the  Linburgs, 
consisting  of  cash-boys  from  Linden  and  Hofburg's 
department  store. 

The  Rosenfelds  adored  him,  with  the  single  ex- 
ception of  the  head  of  the  family.  The  elder  Rosen- 
feld  having  been  "sent  up,"  it  was  K.  who  discov- 
ered that  by  having  him  consigned  to  the  workhouse 
his  family  would  receive  from  the  county  some 
sixty-five  cents  a  day  for  his  labor.  As  this  was 
exactly  sixty-five  cents  a  day  more  than  he  was 
worth  to  them  free,  Mrs.  Rosenfeld  voiced  the  pious 
hope  that  he  be  kept  there  forever. 

K.  made  no  further  attempt  to  avoid  Max  Wilson. 
Some  day  they  would  meet  face  to  face.  He  hoped, 
when  it  happened,  they  two  might  be  alone;  that 
was  all.  Even  had  he  not  been  bound  by  his  promise 
to  Sidney,  flight  would  have  been  foolish.  The  world 
was  a  small  place,  and,  one  way  and  another,  he  had 
known  many  people.  Wherever  he  went,  there  would 
be  the  same  chance. 

And  he  did  not  deceive  himself.  Other  things 
being  equal,  —  the  eddy  and  all  that  it  meant,  — 

137 


he  would  not  willingly  take  himself  out  of  his  small 
share  of  Sidney's  life. 

She  was  never  to  know  what  she  meant  to  him,  of 
course.  He  had  scourged  his  heart  until  it  no  longer 
shone  in  his  eyes  when  he  looked  at  her.  But  he  was 
very  human  —  not  at  all  meek.  There  were  plenty 
of  days  when  his  philosophy  lay  in  the  dust  and 
savage  dogs  of  jealousy  tore  at  it;  more  than  one 
evening  when  he  threw  himself  face  downward  on 
the  bed  and  lay  without  moving  for  hours.  And  of 
these  periods  of  despair  he  was  always  heartily 
ashamed  the  next  day. 

The  meeting  with  Max  Wilson  took  place  early 
in  September,  and  under  better  circumstances  than 
he  could  have  hoped  for. 

Sidney  had  come  home  for  her  weekly  visit,  and 
her  mother's  condition  had  alarmed  her  for  the  first 
time.  When  Le  Moyne  came  home  at  six  o'clock, 
he  found  her  waiting  for  him  in  the  hall. 

"  I  am  just  a  little  frightened,  K.,"  she  said.  "  Do 
you  think  mother  is  looking  quite  well?" 

"  She  has  felt  the  heat,  of  course.  The  summer — M 

"Her  lips  are  blue!" 

"It's  probably  nothing  serious/' 

"  She  says  you  've  had  Dr.  Ed  over  to  see  her." 

She  put  her  hands  on  his  arm  and  looked  up  at 
him  with  appeal  and  something  of  terror  in  her  face. 

Thus  cornered,  he  had  to  acknowledge  that  Anna 
had  been  out  of  sorts, 

"I  shall  come  home,  of  course.  -It's  tragic  and 


absurd  that  I  should  be  caring  for  other  people,  when 
niy  own  mother — " 

She  dropped  her  head  on  his  arm,  and  he  saw 
that  she  was  crying.  If  he  made  a  gesture  to  draw 
her  to  him,  she  never  knew  it.  After  a  moment  she 
looked  up. 

"  I  'm  much  braver  than  this  in  the  hospital.  But 
when  it's  one's  own!" 

K.  was  sorely  tempted  to  tell  her  the  truth  and 
bring  her  back  to  the  little  house:  to  their  old  even- 
ings together,  to  seeing  the  younger  Wilson,  not  as 
the  white  god  of  the  operating-room  and  the  hospital, 
but  as  the  dandy  of  the  Street  and  the  neighbor  of 
her  childhood  —  back  even  to  Joe. 

But,  with  Anna's  precarious  health  and  Harriet's 
increasing  engrossment  in  her  business,  he  felt  it 
more  and  more  necessary  that  Sidney  go  on  with  her 
training.  A  profession  was  a  safeguard.  And  there 
was  another  point:  it  had  been  decided  that  Anna 
was  not  to  know  her  condition.  If  she  was  not  wor- 
ried she  might  live  for  years.  There  was  no  surer 
way  to  make  her  suspect  it  than  by  bringing  Sidney 
home. 

Sidney  sent  Katie  to  ask  Dr.  Ed  to  come  over  after 
dinner.  With  the  sunset  Anna  seemed  better.  She 
insisted  on  coming  downstairs,  and  even  sat  with 
them  on  the  balcony  until  the  stars  came  out,  talk- 
ing of  Christine's  trousseau,  and,  rather  fretfully,  of 
what  she  would  do  without  the  parlors. 

"You  shall  have  your  own  boudoir  upstairs," 
139 


said  Sidney  valiantly.  "  Katie  can  carry  your  tray 
up  there.  We  are  going  to  make  the  sewing-room 
into  your  private  sitting-room,  and  I  shall  nail  the 
machine-top  down." 

This  pleased  her.  When  K.  insisted  on  carrying 
her  upstairs,  she  went  in  a  flutter. 

"He  is  so  strong,  Sidney!"  she  said,  when  he  had 
placed  her  on  her  bed.  "How  can  a  clerk,  bend- 
ing over  a  ledger,  be  so  muscular?  When  I  have 
callers,  will  it  be  all  right  for  Katie  to  show  them 
upstairs?" 

She  dropped  asleep  before  the  doctor  came; 
and  when,  at  something  after  eight,  the  door  of  the 
Wilson  house  slammed  and  a  figure  crossed  the 
street,  it  was  not  Ed  at  all,  but  the  surgeon. 

Sidney  had  been  talking  rather  more  frankly  than 
usual.  Lately  there  had  been  a  reserve  about  her. 
K.,  listening  intently  that  night,  read  between 
words  a  story  of  small  persecutions  and  jealousies. 
But  the  girl  minimized  them,  after  her  way. 

"It's  always  hard  for  probationers,"  she  said. 
"  I  often  think  Miss  Harrison  is  trying  my  mettle." 

"Harrison!" 

"Carlotta  Harrison.  And  now  that  Miss  Gregg 
has  said  she  will  accept  me,  it's  really  all  over.  The 
other  nurses  are  wonderful  —  so  kind  and  so  help- 
ful. I  hope  I  shall  look  well  in  my  cap." 

Carlotta  Harrison  was  in  Sidney's  hospital!  A 
thousand  contingencies  flashed  through  his  mind. 
Sidney  might  grow  to  like  her  and  bring  her  to  the 

140 


house.  Sidney  might  insist  on  the  thing  she  always 
spoke  of  —  that  he  visit  the  hospital ;  and  he  would 
meet  her,  face  to  face.  He  could  have  depended  on 
a  man  to  keep  his  secret.  This  girl  with  her  somber 
eyes  and  her  threat  to  pay  him  out  for  what  had 
happened  to  her  —  she  meant  danger  of  a  sort 
that  no  man  could  fight. 

"Soon,"  said  Sidney,  through  the  warm  darkness, 
"  I  shall  have  a  cap,  and  be  always  forgetting  it  and 
putting  my  hat  on  over  it  —  the  new  ones  always 
do.  One  of  the  girls  slept  in  hers  the  other  night! 
They  are  tulle,  you  know,  and  quite  stiff,  and  it  was 
the  most  erratic-looking  thing  the  next  day!" 

It  was  then  that  the  door  across  the  street  closed. 
Sidney  did  not  hear  it,  but  K.  bent  forward.  There 
was  a  part  of  his  brain  always  automatically  on 
watch. 

"I  shall  get  my  operating-room  training,  too/*1 
she  went  on.  "That  is  the  real  romance  of  the  hos-, 
oital.  A  —  a  surgeon  is  a  sort  of  hero  in  a  hospital. 
You  would  n't  think  that,  would  you?  There  was  a 
lot  of  excitement  to-day.  Even  the  probationers' 
table  was  talking  about  it.  Dr.  Max  Wilson  did  the 
Edwardes  operation." 

The  figure  across  the  Street  was  lighting  a  cigar- 
ttte.  Perhaps,  after  all  - 

"Something  tremendously  difficult  —  I  don't 
know  what.  It's  going  into  the  medical  journals.  A 
Dr.  Edwardes  invented  it,  or  whatever  they  call  it. 
They  took  a  picture  of  the  operating-room  for  the 

141 


article.  The  photographer  had  to  put  on  operating 
clothes  and  wrap  the  camera  in  sterilized  towels. 
It  was  the  most  thrilling  thing,  they  say  — " 

Her  voice  died  away  as  her  eyes  followed  K.'s. 
Max,  cigarette  in  hand,  was  coming  across,  under 
the  ailanthus  tree.  He  hesitated  on  the  pavement, 
his  eyes  searching  the  shadowy  balcony. 

"  Sidney  ?" 

"Here!   Right  back  here ! " 

There  was  vibrant  gladness  in  her  tone.  He  came 
slowly  toward  them. 

"My  brother  is  not  at  home,  so  I  came  over. 
How  select  you  are,  with  your  balcony!" 

"Can  you  see  the  step?" 

"Coming,  with  bells  on." 

K.  had  risen  and  pushed  back  his  chair.  His  mind 
was  working  quickly.  Here  in  the  darkness  he  could 
hold  the  situation  for  a  moment.  If  he  could  get 
Sidney  into  the  house,  the  rest  would  not  matter. 
Luckily,  the  balcony  was  very  dark. 

"  Is  any  one  ill?" 

"  Mother  is  not  well.  This  is  Mr.  Le  Moyne,  and 
he  knows  who  you  are  very  well,  indeed." 

The  two  men  shook  hands. 

"  I  Ve  heard  a  lot  of  Mr.  Le  Moyne.  Did  n't  the 
Street  beat  the  Linburgs  the  other  day?  And  I  be- 
lieve the  Rosen f elds  are  in  receipt  of  sixty-five  cents 
a  day  and  considerable  peace  and  quiet  through  you, 
Mr.  Le  Moyne.  You're  the  most  popular  man  on 
the  Street." 

142 


K 


"I've  always  heard  that  about  you.  Sidney,  if 
Dr.  Wilson  is  here  to  see  your  mother  — " 

"Going,"  said  Sidney.  "And  Dr.  Wilson  is  a  very 
great  person,  K.,  so  be  polite  to  him." 

Max  had  roused  at  the  sound  of  Le  Moyne's 
voice,  not  to  suspicion,  of  course,  but  to  memory. 
Without  any  apparent  reason,  he  was  back  in  Berlin, 
tramping  the  country  roads,  and  beside  him  — 

"Wonderful  night!" 

"Great,"  he  replied.  "The  mind's  a  curious 
thing,  is  n't  it.  In  the  instant  since  Miss  Page  went 
through  that  window  I  Ve  been  to  Berlin  and  back ! 
Will  you  have  a  cigarette?" 

"Thanks;  I  have  my  pipe  here." 

K.  struck  a  match  with  his  steady  hands.  Now 
that  the  thing  had  come,  he  was  glad  to  face  it.  In 
the  flare,  his  quiet  profile  glowed  against  the  night. 
Then  he  flung  the  match  over  the  rail. 

"Perhaps  my  voice  took  you  back  to  Berlin." 

Max  stared;  then  he  rose.  Blackness  had  de- 
scended on  them  again,  except  for  the  dull  glow  of 
K.'s  old  pipe. 

"For  God's  sake!" 

11  Sh!  The  neighbors  next  door  have  a  bad  habit 
of  sitting  just  inside  the  curtains." 

"But  — you!" 

"Sit  down.  Sidney  will  be  back  in  a  moment.  I '11 
talk  to  you,  if  you'll  sit  still.  Can  you  hear  me 
plainly?" 

After  a  moment  —  "Yes." 

143 


"  I  Ve  been  here  —  in  the  city,  I  mean  —  for  a 
year.  Name's  Le  Moyne.  Don't  forget  it  —  Le 
Moyne.  I  Ve  got  a  position  in  the  gas  office,  clerical. 
I  get  fifteen  dollars  a  week.  I  have  reason  to  think 
I'm  going  to  be  moved  up.  That  will  be  twenty, 
maybe  twenty- two." 

Wilson  stirred,  but  he  found  no  adequate  words. 
Only  a  part  of  what  K.  said  got  to  him.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  was  back  in  a  famous  clinic,  and  this  man 
across  from  him  —  it  was  not  believable ! 

"It's  not  hard  work,  and  it's  safe.    If  I  make  a 
mistake  there 's  no  life  hanging  on  it.   Once  I  made 
a  blunder,  a  month  or  two  ago.  It  was  a  big  one.  It 
cost  me  three  dollars  out  of  my  own  pocket.  But  - 
that 'sail  it  cost." 

Wilson's  voice  showed  that  he  was  more  than  in- 
credulous; he  was  profoundly  moved. 

"We  thought  you  were  dead.  There  were  all 
sorts  of  stories.  When  a  year  went  by  —  the  Titanic 
had  gone  down,  and  nobody  knew  but  what  you 
were  on  it  —  we  gave  up.  I  —  in  June  we  put  up 
a  tablet  for  you  at  the  college.  I  went  down  for  the 
—  for  the  services." 

"Let  it  stay,"  said  K.  quietly.  " I'm  dead  as  far 
as  the  college  goes,  anyhow.  I  '11  never  go  back.  I  'm 
Le  Moyne  now.  And,  for  Heaven's  sake,  don't  be 
sorry  for  me.  I  'm  more  contented  than  I  Ve  been 
for  a  long  time." 

The  wonder  in  Wilson's  voice  was  giving  way  to 
irritation. 

144 


"But  —  when  you  had  everything!  Why,  good 
Heavens,  man,  I  did  your  operation  to-day,  and  I  've 
been  blowing  about  it  ever  since." 

"I  had  everything  for  a  while.  Then  I  lost  the 
essential.  When  that  happened  I  gave  up.  All  a  man 
in  our  profession  has  is  a  certain  method,  knowledge 
—call  it  what  you  like,  —  and  faith  in  himself.  I  lost 
my  self-confidence;  that's  all.  Certain  things  hap- 
pened;  kept  on  happening.  So  I  gave  it  up.  That 'sail. 
It 'snot  dramatic.  For  about  a  year  I  was  damned 
sorry  for  myself.  I've  stopped  whining  now." 

"If  every  surgeon  gave  up  because  he  lost  cases 

-  I've  just  told  you  I  did  your  operation  to-day. 

There  was  just  a  chance  for  the  man,  and  I  took 

my  courage  in  my  hands  and  tried  it.    The  poor 

devil's  dead." 

K.  rose  rather  wearily  and  emptied  his  pipe  over 
the  balcony  rail. 

"That's  not  the  same.  That's  the  chance  he  and 
you  took.  What  happened  to  me  was  —  different." 

Pipe  in  hand,  he  stood  staring  out  at  the  ailanthus 
tree  with  its  crown  of  stars.  Instead  of  the  Street 
with  its  quiet  houses,  he  saw  the  men  he  had  known 
and  worked  with  and  taught,  his  friends  who  spoke 
his  language,  who  had  loved  him,  many  of  them, 
gathered  about  a  bronze  tablet  set  in  a  wall  of  the 
old  college;  he  saw  their  earnest  faces  and  grave 
eyes.  He  heard  —  t 

He  heard  the  soft  rustle  of  Sidney's  dress  as  she 
came  into  the  little  room  behind  them. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A  FEW  days  after  Wilson's  recognition  of  K.,  two 
most  exciting  things  happened  to  Sidney.  One  was 
that  Christine  asked  her  to  be  maid  of  honor  at  her 
wedding.  The  other  was  more  wonderful.  She  was 
accepted,  and  given  her  cap. 

Because  she  could  not  get  home  that  night,  and 
because  the  little  house  had  no  telephone,  she  wrote 
the  news  to  her  mother  and  sent  a  note  to  Le  Moyne: 

DEAR  K.,  —  I  am  accepted,  and  it  is  on  my  head 
at  this  minute.  I  am  as  conscious  of  it  as  if  it  were 
a  halo,  and  as  if  I  had  done  something  to  deserve  it, 
instead  of  just  hoping  that  some  day  I  shall.  I  am 
writing  this  on  the  bureau,  so  that  when  I  lift  my 
eyes  I  may  see  It.  I  am  afraid  just  now  I  am  thinking 
more  of  the  cap  than  of  what  it  means.  It  is  becom- 
ing! 

Very  soon  I  shall  slip  down  and  show  it  to  the 
ward.  I  have  promised.  I  shall  go  to  the  door  when 
the  night  nurse  is  busy  somewhere,  and  turn  all 
around  and  let  them  see  it,  without  saying  a  word. 
They  love  a  little  excitement  like  that. 

You  have  been  very  good  to  me,  dear  K.  It  is 
you  who  have  made  possible  this  happiness  of 
mine  to-night.  I  am  promising  myself  to  be  very 
good,  and  not  so  vain,  and  to  love  my  enemies  — • 

146 


although  I  have  none  now.    Miss  Harrison  has  just 
congratulated  me  most  kindly,  and  I  am  sure  poor 
Joe  has  both  forgiven  and  forgotten. 
Off  to  my  first  lecture! 

SIDNEY. 

K.  found  the  note  on  the  hall  table  when  he  got 
home  that  night,  and  carried  it  upstairs  to  read. 
Whatever  faint  hope  he  might  have  had  that  her 
youth  would  prevent  her  acceptance  he  knew  now 
was  over.  With  the  letter  in  his  hand,  he  sat  by 
his  table  and  looked  ahead  into  the  empty  years. 
Not  quite  empty,  of  course.  She  would  be  coming 
home. 

But  more  and  more  the  life  of  the  hospital  would 
engross  her.  He  surmised,  too,  very  shrewdly,  that, 
had  he  ever  had  a  hope  that  she  might  come  to  care 
for  him,  his  very  presence  in  the  little  house  mili- 
tated against  him.  There  was  none  of  the  illusion  of 
separation ;  he  was  always  there,  like  Katie.  When 
she  opened  the  door,  she  called  "  Mother "  from  the 
hall.  If  Anna  did  not  answer,  she  called  him,  in 
much  the  same  voice. 

He  had  built  a  wall  of  philosophy  that  had  with- 
stood even  Wilson's  recognition  and  protest.  But 
enduring  philosophy  comes  only  with  time;  and  he 
was  young.  Now  and  then  all  his  defenses  crumbled 
before  a  passion  that,  when  he  dared  to  face  it,  shook 
him  by  its  very  strength.  And  that  day  all  his  stoi- 
cism went  down  before  Sidney's  letter.  Its  very 

147 


frankness  and  affection  hurt  —  not  that  he  did  not 
want  her  affection;  but  he  craved  so  much  more. 
He  threw  himself  face  down  on  the  bed,  with  the 
paper  crushed  in  his  hand. 

Sidney's  letter  was  not  the  only  one  he  received 
that  day.  When,  in  response  to  Katie's  summons,  he 
rose  heavily  and  prepared  for  dinner,  he  found  an 
unopened  envelope  on  the  table.  It  was  from  Max 
Wilson:  — 

DEAR  LE  MOYNE,  —  I  have  been  going  around 
in  a  sort  of  haze  all  day.  The  fact  that  I  only  heard 
your  voice  and  scarcely  saw  you  last  night  has  made 
the  whole  thing  even  more  unreal. 

I  have  a  feeling  of  delicacy  about  trying  to  see  you 
again  so  soon.  I  'm  bound  to  respect  your  seclusion. 
But  there  are  some  things  that  have  got  to  be  dis- 
cussed. 

You  said  last  night  that  things  were  "different" 
with  you.  I  know  about  that.  You'd  had  one  or 
two  unlucky  accidents.  Do  you  know  any  man  in 
our  profession  who  has  not?  And,  for  fear  you  think 
I  do  not  know  what  I  am  talking  about,  the  thing  was 
threshed  out  at  the  State  Society  wrhen  the  question 
of  the  tablet  came  up.  Old  Barnes  got  up  and  said : 
"Gentlemen,  all  of  us  live  more  or  less  in  glass 
houses.  Let  him  who  is  without  guilt  among  us  throw 
the  first  stone ! "  By  George !  You  should  have  heard 
them! 

I  did  n't  sleep  last  night.  I  took  my  little  car  and 
148 


drove  around  the  country  roads,  and  the  farther 
I  went  the  more  outrageous  your  position  became. 
I'm  not  going  to  write  any  rot  about  the  world 
needing  men  like  you,  although  it's  true  enough.  But 
our  profession  does.  You  working  in  a  gas  office, 
while  old  O'Hara  bungles  and  hacks,  and  I  struggle 
along  on  what  I  learned  from  you! 

It  takes  courage  to  step  down  from  the  pinnacle 
you  stood  on.  So  it's  not  cowardice  that  has  set 
you  down  here.  It's  wrong  conception.  And  I've 
thought  of  two  things.  The  first,  and  best,  is  for  you 
to  go  back.  No  one  has  taken  your  place,  because 
no  one  could  do  the  work.  But  if  that 's  out  of  the 
question,  —  and  only  you  know  that,  for  only  you 
know  the  facts,  —  the  next  best  thing  is  this,  and  in 
all  humility  I  make  the  suggestion. 

Take  the  State  exams  under  your  present  name, 
and  when  you  've  got  your  certificate,  come  in  with 
me.  This  is  n't  magnanimity.  I  '11  be  getting  a 
damn  sight  more  than  I  give. 

Think  it  over,  old  man.  M.  W. 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that  a  man  who  is  absolutely 
untrustworthy  about  women  is  often  the  soul  of 
honor  to  other  men.  The  younger  Wilson,  taking 
his  pleasures  lightly  and  not  too  discriminatingly, 
was  making  an  offer  that  meant  his  ultimate  eclipse, 
and  doing  it  cheerfully,  with  his  eyes  open. 

K.  was  moved.  It  was  like  Max  to  make  such  an 
offer,  like  him  to  do  it  as  if  he  were  asking  a  favor 

149 


and  not  conferring  one.  But  the  offer  left  him  tm- 
tempted.  He  had  weighed  himself  in  the  balance, 
and  found  himself  wanting.  No  tablet  on  the  col- 
lege wall  could  change  that.  And  when,  late  that 
night,  Wilson  found  him  on  the  balcony  and  added 
appeal  to  argument,  the  situation  remained  un- 
changed. He  realized  its  hopelessness  when  K. 
lapsed  into  whimsical  humor. 

"I'm  not  absolutely  useless  where  I  am,  you 
know,  Max,"  he  said.  "I've  raised  three  tomato 
plants  and  a  family  of  kittens  this  summer,  helped 
to  plan  a  trousseau,  assisted  in  selecting  wall-paper 
for  the  room  just  inside,  —  did  you  notice  it?  —  and 
developed  a  boy  pitcher  with  a  ball  that  twists 
around  the  bat  like  a  Colles  fracture  around  a 
splint!" 

"  If  you  're  going  to  be  humorous  — " 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  K.  quietly,  "if  I  had  no 
sense  of  humor,  I  should  go  upstairs  to-night,  turn 
on  the  gas,  and  make  a  stertorous  entrance  into 
eternity.  By  the  way,  that's  something  I  forgot!" 

"Eternity?" 

"  No.  Among  my  other  activities,  I  wired  the  par- 
lor for  electric  light.  The  bride-to-be  expects  some 
electroliers  as  wedding  gifts,  and  — " 

Wilson  rose  and  flung  his  cigarette  into  the  grass. 

"I  wish  to  God  I  understood  you!"  he  said  irri- 
tably. 

K.  rose  with  him,  and  all  the  suppressed  feeling 
of  the  interview  was  crowded  into  his  last  few  words. 

150 


"I'm  not  as  ungrateful  as  you  think,  Max,"  he 
said.  "I  —  you 've  helped  a  lot.  Don't  worry  about 
me.  I'm  as  well  off  as  I  deserve  to  be,  and  better. 
Good-night." 

"Good-night." 

Wilson's  unexpected  magnanimity  put  K.  in  a 
curious  position  —  left  him,  as  it  were,  with  a  di- 
vided allegiance.  Sidney's  frank  infatuation  for  the 
young  surgeon  was  growing.  He  was  quick  to  see  it. 
And  where  before  he  might  have  felt  justified  in  go- 
ing to  the  length  of  warning  her,  now  his  hands  were 
tied. 

Max  was  interested  in  her.  K.  could  see  that,  too. 
More  than  once  he  had  taken  Sidney  back  to  the 
hospital  in  his  car.  Le  Moyne,  handicapped  at  every 
turn,  found  himself  facing  two  alternatives,  one  but 
little  better  than  the  other.  The  affair  might  run 
a  legitimate  course,  ending  in  marriage  —  a  year  of 
happiness  for  her,  and  then  what  marriage  with  Max, 
as  he  knew  him,  would  inevitably  mean:  wanderings 
away,  remorseful  returns  to  her,  infidelities,  misery. 
Or,  it  might  be  less  serious  but  almost  equally  un- 
happy for  her.  Max  might  throw  caution  to  the 
winds,  pursue  her  for  a  time,  —  K.  had  seen  him  do 
this,  —  and  then,  growing  tired,  change  to  some  new 
attraction.  In  either  case,  he  could  only  wait  and 
watch,  eating  his  heart  out  during  the  long  evenings 
when  Anna  read  her  "Daily  Thoughts"  upstairs 
and  he  sat  alone  with  his  pipe  on  the  balcony. 
Sidney  went  on  night  duty  shortly  after  her 


acceptance.  All  of  her  orderly  young  life  had  been 
divided  into  two  parts:  day,  when  one  played  or 
worked,  and  night,  when  one  slept.  Now  she  was 
compelled  to  a  readjustment:  one  worked  in  the 
night  and  slept  in  the  day.  Things  seemed  unnat- 
ural, chaotic.  At  the  end  of  her  first  night  report 
Sidney  added  what  she  could  remember  of  a  little 
verse  of  Stevenson's.  She  added  it  to  the  end  of  her 
general  report,  which  was  to  the  effect  that  every- 
thing had  been  quiet  during  the  night  except  the 
neighborhood. 

"  And  does  it  not  seem  hard  to  you, 
When  all  the  sky  is  clear  and  blue, 
And  I  should  like  so  much  to  play, 
To  have  to  go  to  bed  by  day?  " 

The  day  assistant  happened  on  the  report,  and 
was  quite  scandalized. 

"If  the  night  nurses  are  to  spend  their  time 
making  up  poetry,"  she  said  crossly,  "we'd  better 
change  this  hospital  into  a  young  ladies'  seminary. 
If  she  wants  to  complain  about  the  noise  in  the  street, 
she  should  do  so  in  proper  form." 

"I  don't  think  she  made  it  up,"  said  the  Head, 
trying  not  to  smile.  "I've  heard  something  like  it 
somewhere,  and,  what  with  the  heat  and  the  noise 
of  traffic,  I  don't  see  how  any  of  them  get  any 
sleep." 

But,  because  discipline  must  be  observed,  she 
wrote  on  the  slip  the  assistant  carried  around: 
"Please  submit  night  reports  in  prose." 

152 


Sidney  did  not  sleep  much.  She  tumbled  into  her 
low  bed  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning,  those  days, 
with  her  splendid  hair  neatly  braided  down  her 
back  and  her  prayers  said,  and  immediately  her 
active  young  mind  filled  with  images  —  Christine's 
wedding,  Dr.  Max  passing  the  door  of  her  old  ward 
and  she  not  there,  Joe  —  even  Tillie,  whose  story 
was  now  the  sensation  of  the  Street.  A  few  months 
before  she  would  not  have  cared  to  think  of  Tillie. 
She  would  have  retired  her  into  the  land  of  things- 
one-must-forget.  But  the  Street's  conventions  were 
not  holding  Sidney's  thoughts  now.  She  puzzled 
over  Tillie  a  great  deal,  and  over  Grace  and  her  kind. 

On  her  first  night  on  duty,  a  girl  had  been  brought 
in  from  the  Avenue.  She  had  taken  a  poison  —  no- 
body knew  just  what.  When  the  internes  had  tried 
to  find  out,  she  had  only  said:  "What's  the  use?" 

And  she  ha^  died. 

Sidney  kept  asking  herself,  "Why?"  those  morn- 
ings when  she  could  not  get  to  sleep.  People  were 
kind,  —  men  were  kind,  really,  —  and  yet,  for  some 
reason  or  other,  those  things  had  to  be.  Why? 

After  a  time  Sidney  would  doze  fitfully.  But  by 
three  o'clock  she  was  always  up  and  dressing.  After 
a  time  the  strain  told  on  her.  Lack  of  sleep  wrote 
hollows  around  her  eyes  and  killed  some  of  her 
bright  color.  Between  three  and  four  o'clock  in  the 
morning  she  was  overwhelmed  on  duty  by  a  perfect 
madness  of  sleep.  There  was  a  penalty  for  sleeping 
on  duty.  The  old  night  watchman  had  a  way  of  slip- 

153 


ping  up  on  one  nodding.  The  night  nurses  wished 
they  might  fasten  a  bell  on  him ! 

Luckily,  at  four  came  early-morning  tempera- 
tures; that  roused  her.  And  after  that  came  the 
clatter  of  early  milk- wagons  and  the  rose  hues  of 
dawn  over  the  roofs.  Twice  in  the  night,  once  at 
supper  and  again  toward  dawn,  she  drank  strong 
black  coffee.  But  after  a  week  or  two  her  nerves 
were  stretched  taut  as  a  string. 

Her  station  was  in  a  small  room  close  to  her  three 
wards.  But  she  sat  very  little,  as  a  matter  of  fact. 
Her  responsibility  was  heavy  on  her;  she  made  fre- 
quent rounds.  The  late  summer  nights  were  fitful, 
feverish;  the  darkened  wards  stretched  away  like 
caverns  from  the  dim  light  near  the  door.  And  from 
out  of  these  caverns  came  petulant  voices,  uneasy 
movements,  the  banging  of  a  cup  on  a  bedside,  which 
was  the  signal  of  thirst. 

The  older  nurses  saved  themselves  when  they 
could.  To  them,  perhaps  just  a  little  weary  with  time 
and  much  service,  the  banging  cup  meant  not  so 
much  thirst  as  annoyance.  They  visited  Sidney 
sometimes  and  cautioned  her. 

"Don't  jump  like  that,  child ;  they  're  not  parched, 
you  know." 

"  But  if  you  have  a  fever  and  are  thirsty  — " 

"Thirsty  nothing!  They  get  lonely.  All  they  want 
is  to  see  somebody." 

"Then,"  Sidney  would  say,  rising  resolutely, 
"they  are  going  to  see  me." 

154 


Gradually  the  older  girls  saw  that  she  would  not 
•ave  herself.  They  liked  her  very  much,  and  they, 
too,  had  started  in  with  willing  feet  and  tender  hands; 
but  the  thousand  and  one  demands  of  their  service 
had  drained  them  dry.  They  were  efficient,  cool- 
headed,  quick-thinking  machines,  doing  their  best, 
of  course,  but  differing  from  Sidney  in  that  their 
service  was  of  the  mind,  while  hers  was  of  the 
heart.  To  them,  pain  was  a  thing  to  be  recorded 
on  a  report ;  to  Sidney,  it  was  written  on  the  tablets 
of  her  soul. 

Carlotta  Harrison  went  on  night  duty  at  the  same 
time  —  her  last  night  service,  as  it  was  Sidney's  first. 
She  accepted  it  stoically.  She  had  charge  of  the  three 
wards  on  the  floor  just  below  Sidney,  and  of  the 
ward  into  which  all  emergency  cases  were  taken.  It 
was  a  difficult  service,  perhaps  the  most  difficult  in 
the  house.  Scarcely  a  night  went  by  without  its  pa- 
trol or  ambulance  case.  Ordinarily,  the  emergency 
ward  had  its  own  night  nurse.  But  the  house  was 
full  to  overflowing.  Belated  vacations  and  illness 
had  depleted  the  training-school.  Carlotta,  given 
double  duty,  merely  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"I've  always  had  things  pretty  hard  here,"  she 
commented  briefly.  "When  I  go  out,  I'll  either  be 
competent  enough  to  run  a  whole  hospital  single- 
handed,  or  I'll  be  carried  out  feet  first." 

Sidney  was  glad  to  have  her  so  near.  She  knew 
her  better  than  she  knew  the  other  nurses.  Small 
•mergencies  were  constantly  arising  and  finding  her 


at  a  loss.  Once  at  least  every  night,  Miss  Harrison 
would  hear  a  soft  hiss  from  the  back  staircase  that 
connected  the  two  floors,  and,  going  out,  would  see 
Sidney's  flushed  face  and  slightly  crooked  cap  bend- 
ing over  the  stair-rail. 

"  I  'm  dreadfully  sorry  to  bother  you,"  she  would 
say,  "but  So-and-So  won't  have  a  fever  bath";  or, 
"I've  a  woman  here  who  refuses  her  medicine." 
Then  would  follow  rapid  questions  and  equally 
rapid  answers.  Much  as  Carlotta  disliked  and 
feared  the  girl  overhead,  it  never  occurred  to  her  to 
refuse  her  assistance.  Perhaps  the  angels  who  keep 
the  great  record  will  put  that  to  her  credit. 

Sidney  saw  her  first  death  shortly  after  she  went 
on  night  duty.  It  was  the  most  terrible  experience 
of  all  her  life;  and  yet,  as  death  goes,  it  was  quiet 
enough.  So  gradual  was  it  that  Sidney,  with  K.'s 
little  watch  in  hand,  was  not  sure  exactly  when  it 
happened.  The  light  was  very  dim  behind  the  little 
screen.  One  moment  the  sheet  was  quivering  slightly 
under  the  struggle  for  breath,  the  next  it  was  still. 
That  was  all.  But  to  the  girl  it  was  catastrophe. 
That  life,  so  potential,  so  tremendous  a  thing,  could 
end  so  ignominiously,  that  the  long  battle  should 
terminate  always  in  this  capitulation  —  it  seemed 
to  her  that  she  could  not  stand  it.  Added  to  all  her 
other  new  problems  of  living  was  this  one  of  dying. 

She  made  mistakes,  of  course,  which  the  kindly 
nurses  forgot  to  report  —  basins  left  about,  errors 

156 


on  her  records.  She  rinsed  her  thermometer  in  hot 
water  one  night,  and  startled  an  interne  by  sending 
him  word  that  Mary  McGuire's  temperature  was  a 
hundred  and  ten  degrees.  She  let  a  delirious  patient 
escape  from  the  ward  another  night  and  go  airily 
down  the  fire-escape  before  she  discovered  what  had 
happened!  Then  she  distinguished  herself  by  flying 
down  the  iron  staircase  and  bringing  the  runaway 
back  single-handed. 

For  Christine's  wedding  the  Street  threw  off  its 
drab  attire  and  assumed  a  wedding  garment.  In  the 
beginning  it  was  incredulous  about  some  of  the  de- 
tails. 

"An  awning  from  the  house  door  to  the  curbstone, 
and  a  policeman!"  reported  Mrs.  Rosenfeld,  who 
was  finding  steady  employment  at  the  Lorenz 
house.  "And  another  awning  at  the  church,  with 
a  red  carpet!" 

Mr.  Rosenfeld  had  arrived  home  and  was  making 
up  arrears  of  rest  and  recreation. 

"Huh!"  he  said.  "Suppose  it  don't  rain.  What 
then?"  His  Jewish  father  spoke  in  him. 

"And  another  policeman  at  the  church!"  said 
Mrs.  Rosenfeld  triumphantly. 

"Why  do  they  ask  'em  if  they  don't  trust  'em?" 

But  the  mention  of  the  policemen  had  been  un- 
fortunate. It  recalled  to  him  many  things  that 
were  better  forgotten.  He  rose  and  scowled  at  his 
wife. 

157 


"You  tell  Johnny  something  for  me,"  he  snarled. 
"You  tell  him  when  he  sees  his  father  walking  down 
street,  and  he  sittin'  up  there  alone  on  that  auto- 
mobile, I  want  him  to  stop  and  pick  me  up  when  I 
hail  him.  Me  walking,  while  my  son  swells  around 
in  a  car!  And  another  thing."  He  turned  savagely  at 
the  door.  "You  let  me  hear  of  him  road-housin',  and 
I'll  kill  him!" 

The  wedding  was  to  be  at  five  o'clock.  This,  in 
itself,  defied  all  traditions  of  the  Street,  which  was 
either  married  in  the  very  early  morning  at  the 
Catholic  church  or  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening 
at  the  Presbyterian.  There  was  something  reckless 
about  five  o'clock.  The  Street  felt  the  dash  of  it. 
It  had  a  queer  feeling  that  perhaps  such  a  marriage 
was  not  quite  legal. 

The  question  of  what  to  wear  became,  for  the 
men,  an  earnest  one.  Dr.  Ed  resurrected  an  old 
black  frock-coat  and  had  a  "V"  of  black  cambric 
set  in  the  vest.  Mr.  Jenkins,  the  grocer,  rented  a 
cutaway,  and  bought  a  new  Panama  to  wear  with 
it.  The  deaf-and-dumb  book  agent  who  boarded 
at  McKees',  and  who,  by  reason  of  his  affliction,  was 
calmly  ignorant  of  the  excitement  around  him,  wore 
a  borrowed  dress-suit,  and  considered  himself  to  the 
end  of  his  days  the  only  properly  attired  man  in  the 
church. 

The  younger  Wilson  was  to  be  one  of  the  ushers. 
When  the  newspapers  came  out  with  the  published 
list  and  this  was  discovered,  as  well  as  that  Sidney 

158 


was  the  maid  of  honor,  there  was  a  distinct  quiver 
through  the  hospital  training-school.  A  probationer 
was  authorized  to  find  out  particulars.  It  was  the 
day  of  the  wedding  then,  and  Sidney,  who  had  not 
been  to  bed  at  all,  was  sitting  in  a  sunny  window  in 
the  Dormitory  Annex,  drying  her  hair. 

The  probationer  was  distinctly  uneasy. 

"I  —  I  just  wonder,"  she  said,  "if  you  would  let 
some  of  the  girls  come  in  to  see  you  when  you're 
dressed?" 

"Why,  of  course  Lwill." 

"It's  awfully  thrilling,  isn't  it?  And  —  isn't 
Dr.  Wilson  going  to  be  an  usher?" 

Sidney  colored.    "I  believe  so." 

"Are  you  going  to  walk  down  the  aisle  with  him?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  They  had  a  rehearsal  last  night, 
but  of  course  I  was  not  there.  I  —  I  think  I  walk 
alone." 

The  probationer  had  been  instructed  to  find  out 
other  things;  so  she  set  to  work  with  a  fan  at  Sid- 
ney's hair. 

"You've  known  Dr.  Wilson  a  long  time,  have  n't 
you?" 

"Ages." 

"He's  awfully  good-looking,  is  n't  he?" 

Sidney  considered.  She  was  not  ignorant  of  the 
methods  of  the  school.  If  this  girl  was  pumping 
her  — 

"I'll  have  to  think  that  over,"  she  said,  with  a 
glint  of  mischief  in  her  eyes.  "When  you  know  a 

159 


person  terribly  well,  you  hardly  know  whether  he's 
good-looking  or  not." 

"I  suppose,"  said  the  probationer,  running  the 
long  strands  of  Sidney's  hair  through  her  fingers, 
"that  when  you  are  at  home  you  see  him  often." 

Sidney  got  off  the  window-sill,  and,  taking  the 
probationer  smilingly  by  the  shoulders,  faced  her 
toward  the  door. 

"You  go  back  to  the  girls,"  she  said,  "and  tell 
them  to  come  in  and  see  me  when  I  am  dressed,  and 
tell  them  this:  I  don't  know  whether  I  am  to  walk 
down  the  aisle  with  Dr.  Wilson,  but  I  hope  I  am.  I 
see  him  very  often.  I  like  him  very  much.  I  hope 
he  likes  me.  And  I  think  he's  handsome." 

She  shoved  the  probationer  out  into  the  hall  and 
locked  the  door  behind  her. 

That  message  in  its  entirety  reached  Carlotta 
Harrison.  Her  smouldering  eyes  flamed.  The  au- 
dacity of  it  startled  her.  Sidney  must  be  very  sure 
of  herself. 

She,  too,  had  not  slept  during  the  day.  When  the 
probationer  who  had  brought  her  the  report  had 
gone  out,  she  lay  in  her  long  white  night-gown, 
hands  clasped  under  her  head,  and  stared  at  the 
vault-like  ceiling  of  her  little  room. 

She  saw  there  Sidney  in  her  white  dress  going  down 
the  aisle  of  the  church ;  she  saw  the  group  around  the 
altar;  and,  as  surely  as  she  lay  there,  she  knew  that 
Max  Wilson's  eyes  would  be,  not  on  the  bride,  but 
on  the  girl  who  stood  beside  her. 

160 


The  curious  thing  was  that  Carlotta  felt  that  she 
could  stop  the  wedding  if  she  wanted  to.  She'd 
happened  on  a  bit  of  information  —  many  a  wed- 
ding had  been  stopped  for  less.  It  rather  obsessed 
her  to  think  of  stopping  the  wedding,  so  that  Sidney 
and  Max  would  not  walk  down  the  aisle  together. 

There  came,  at  last,  an  hour  before  the  wedding, 
a  lull  in  the  feverish  activities  of  the  previous  month. 
Everything  was  ready.  In  the  Lorenz  kitchen,  piles 
of  plates,  negro  waiters,  ice-cream  freezers,  and 
Mrs.  Rosenfeld  stood  in  orderly  array.  In  the  attic, 
in  the  center  of  a  sheet,  before  a  toilet-table  which 
had  been  carried  upstairs  for  her  benefit,  sat,  on  this 
her  day  of  days,  the  bride.  All  the  second  story  had 
been  prepared  for  guests  and  presents. 

Florists  were  still  busy  in  the  room  below.  Brides- 
maids were  clustered  on  the  little  staircase,  bending 
over  at  each  new  ring  of  the  bell  and  calling  reports 
to  Christine  through  the  closed  door:  — 

"  Another  wooden  box,  Christine.  It  looks  like 
more  plates.  What  will  you  ever  do  with  them  all? " 

1 '  Good  Heavens !  Here 's  another  of  the  neighbors 
who  wants  to  see  how  you  look.  Do  say  you  can't 
have  any  visitors  now." 

Christine  sat  alone  in  the  center  of  her  sheet.  The 
bridesmaids  had  been  sternly  forbidden  to  come  into 
her  room. 

"I  have  n't  had  a  chance  to  think  for  a  month," 
she  said.  "And  I've  got  some  things  I've  got  to 
think  out." 

161 


But,  when  Sidney  came,  she  sent  for  her.  Sidney 
found  her  sitting  on  a  stiff  chair,  in  her  wedding- 
gown,  with  her  veil  spread  out  on  a  small  stand. 

"  Close  the  door,"  said  Christine.  And,  after 
Sidney  had  kissed  her :  — 

"  I  've  a  good  mind  not  to  do  it." 

"You're  tired  and  nervous,  that's  all." 

"I  am,  of  course.  But  that  isn't  what's  wrong 
with  me.  Throw  that  veil  some  place  and  sit  down." 

Christine  was  undoubtedly  rouged,  a  very  deli- 
cate touch.  Sidney  thought  brides  should  be  rather 
pale.  But  under  her  eyes  were  lines  that  Sidney  had 
never  seen  there  before. 

"I'm  not  going  to  be  foolish,  Sidney.  I'll  go 
through  with  it,  of  course.  It  would  put  mamma  in 
her  grave  if  I  made  a  scene  now." 

She  suddenly  turned  on  Sidney. 

"  Palmer  gave  his  bachelor  dinner  at  the  Country 
Club  last  night.  They  all  drank  more  than  they 
should.  Somebody  called  father  up  to-day  and  said 
that  Palmer  had  emptied  a  bottle  of  wine  into  the 
piano.  He  has  n't  been  here  to-day." 

" He'll  be  along.  And  as  for  the  other  —  perhaps 
it  was  n't  Palmer  who  did  it." 

"That's  not  it,  Sidney.    I 'm  frightened." 

Three  months  before,  perhaps,  Sidney  could  not 
have  comforted  her;  but  three  months  had  made  a 
change  in  Sidney.  The  complacent  sophistries  of  her 
girlhood  no  longer  answered  for  truth.  She  put  her 
arms  around  Christine's  shoulders. 

162 


FROM   INSIDE  HER  CORSAGE  SHE  BROUGHT  OUT  A  LETTER 


"A  man  who  drinks  is  a  broken  reed,"  said  Chris- 
tine. "That's  what  I  'm  going  to  marry  and  lean  on 
the  rest  of  my  life  —  a  broken  reed.  And  that  is  n't 
all!" 

She  got  up  quickly,  and,  trailing  her  long  satin 
train  across  the  floor,  bolted  the  door.  Then  from 
inside  her  corsage  she  brought  out  and  held  to  Sidney 
a  letter.  "Special  delivery.  Read  it." 

It  was  very  short;  Sidney  read  it  at  a  glance:  — 

j 

Ask  your  future  husband  if  he  knows  a  girl  at 
213 Avenue. 

Three  months  before,  the  Avenue  would  have 
meant  nothing  to  Sidney.  Now  she  knew.  Christine, 
more  sophisticated,  had  always  known. 

"You  see,"  she  said.  "That's  what  I'm  up 
against." 

Quite  suddenly  Sidney  knew  who  the  girl  at 

213 Avenue  was.  The  paper  she  held  in  her  hand 

was  hospital  paper  with  the  heading  torn  off.  The 
whole  sordid  story  lay  before  her:  Grace  Irving,  with 
her  thin  face  and  cropped  hair,  and  the  newspaper 
on  the  floor  of  the  ward  beside  her ! 

One  of  the  bridesmaids  thumped  violently  on  the 
door  outside. 

"Another  electric  lamp,"  she  called  excitedly 
through  the  door.  "And  Palmer  is  downstairs." 

"You  see,"  Christine  said  drearily.  "I  have  re* 
ceived  another  electric  lamp,  and  Palmer  is  down- 

163 


stairs!  I've  got  to  go  through  with  it,  I  suppose. 
The  only  difference  between  me  and  other  brides  is 
that  I  know  what  I  'm  getting.  Most  of  them  do 
not." 

"You're  going  on  with  it?" 

"It's  too  late  to  do  anything  else.  I  am  not 
going  to  give  this  neighborhood  anything  to  talk 
about." 

She  picked  up  her  veil  and  set  the  coronet  on  her 
head.  Sidney  stood  with  the  letter  in  her  hands. 
One  of  K.'s  answers  to  her  hot  question  had  been 
this:  — 

"There  is  no  sense  in  looking  back  unless  it  helps 
us  to  look  ahead.  What  your  little  girl  of  the  ward 
has  been  is  not  so  important  as  what  she  is  going  to 
be." 

"Even  granting  this  to  be  true,"  she  said  to 
Christine  slowly,  —  "and  it  may  only  be  malicious, 
after  all,  Christine,  —  it's  surely  over  and  done 
with.  It 's  not  Palmer's  past  that  concerns  you  now: 
it's  his  future  with  you,  is  n't  it?" 

Christine  had  finally  adjusted  her  veil.  A  band 
of  duchesse  lace  rose  like  a  coronet  from  her  soft 
hair,  and  from  it,  sweeping  to  the  end  of  her  train, 
fell  fold  after  fold  of  soft  tulle.  She  arranged  the 
coronet  carefully  with  small  pearl-topped  pins. 
Then  she  rose  and  put  her  hands  on  Sidney's  shoul- 
ders. 

"The  simple  truth  is,"  she  said  quietly,  "that  I 
might  hold  Palmer  if  I  cared  —  terribly.  I  don't. 

164 


And  I'm  afraid  he  knows  it.    It's  my  pride  that's 
hurt,  nothing  else." 

And  thus  did  Christine  Lorenz  go  down  to  her 
wedding. 

Sidney  stood  for  a  moment,  her  eyes  on  the  letter 
she  held.  Already,  in  her  new  philosophy,  she  had 
learned  many  strange  things.  One  of  them  was  this: 
that  women  like  Grace  Irving  did  not  betray  their 
lovers;  that  the  code  of  the  underworld  was  "death 
to  the  squealer";  that  one  played  the  game,  and 
won  or  lost,  and  if  he  lost,  took  his  medicine.  If  not 
Grace,  then  who?  Somebody  else  in  the  hospital 
who  knew  her  story,  of  course.  But  who?  And 
again  —  why? 

Before  going  downstairs,  Sidney  placed  the  letter 
in  a  saucer  and  set  fire  to  it  with  a  match.  Some 
of  the  radiance  had  died  out  of  her  eyes. 

The  Street  voted  the  wedding  a  great  success. 
The  alley,  however,  was  rather  confused  by  certain 
things.  For  instance,  it  regarded  the  awning  as  es- 
sentially for  the  carriage  guests,  and  showed  a  ten- 
dency to  duck  in  under  the  side  when  no  one  was 
looking.  Mrs.  Rosenfeld  absolutely  refused  to  take 
the  usher's  arm  which  was  offered  her,  and  said  she 
guessed  she  was  able  to  walk  up  alone. 

Johnny  Rosenfeld  came,  as  befitted  his  position, 
in  a  complete  chauffeur's  outfit  of  leather  cap  and 
leggings,  with  the  shield  that  was  his  State  license 
pinned  over  his  heart. 

165 


The  Street  came  decorously,  albeit  with  a  degree 
of  uncertainty  as  to  supper.  Should  they  put  some- 
thing on  the  stove  before  they  left,  in  case  only  ice- 
cream and  cake  were  served  at  the  house?  Or  was 
it  just  as  well  to  trust  to  luck,  and,  if  the  Lorenz 
supper  proved  inadequate,  to  sit  down  to  a  cold  snack 
when  they  got  home? 

To  K.,  sitting  in  the  back  of  the  church  between 
Harriet  and  Anna,  the  wedding  was  Sidney  —  Sid- 
ney only.  He  watched  her  first  steps  down  the  aisle, 
saw  her  chin  go  up  as  she  gained  poise  and  confi- 
dence, watched  the  swinging  of  her  young  figure  in 
its  gauzy  white  as  she  passed  him  and  went  forward 
past  the  long  rows  of  craning  necks.  Afterward  he 
could  not  remember  the  wedding  party  at  all.  The 
service  for  him  was  Sidney,  rather  awed  and  very 
serious,  beside  the  altar.  It  was  Sidney  who  came 
down  the  aisle  to  the  triumphant  strains  of  the  wed- 
ding march,  Sidney  with  Max  beside  her! 

On  his  right  sat  Harriet,  having  reached  the  first 
pinnacle  of  her  new  career.  The  wedding  gowns  were 
successful.  They  were  more  than  that  —  they  were 
triumphant.  Sitting  there,  she  cast  comprehensive 
eyes  over  the  church,  filled  with  potential  brides. 

To  Harriet,  then,  that  October  afternoon  was  a 
future  of  endless  lace  and  chiffon,  the  joy  of  creation, 
triumph  eclipsing  triumph.  But  to  Anna,  watching 
the  ceremony  with  blurred  eyes  and  ineffectual  bluish 
lips,  was  coming  her  hour.  Sitting  back  in  the  pew, 
with  her  hands  folded  over  her  prayer-book,  she 

166 


said  a  little  prayer  for  her  straight  young  daughter, 
facing  out  from  the  altar  with  clear,  unafraid  eyes. 
As  Sidney  and  Max  drew  near  the  door,  Joe  Drum- 
mond,  who  had  been  standing  at  the  back  of  the 
church,  turned  quickly  and  went  out.  He  stumbled, 
rather,  as  if  he  could  not  see. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  supper  at  the  White  Springs  Hotel  had  not 
been  the  last  supper  Carlotta  Harrison  and  Max 
Wilson  had  taken  together.  Carlotta  had  selected 
for  her  vacation  a  small  town  within  easy  motoring 
distance  of  the  city,  and  two  or  three  times  during 
her  two  weeks  off  duty  Wilson  had  gone  out  to  see 
her.  He  liked  being  with  her.  She  stimulated  him. 
For  once  that  he  could  see  Sidney,  he  saw  Carlotta 
twice. 

She  had  kept  the  affair  well  in  hand.  She  was 
playing  for  high  stakes.  She  knew  quite  well  the 
kind  of  man  with  whom  she  was  dealing  —  that 
he  would  pay  as  little  as  possible.  But  she  knew,  too, 
that,  let  him  want  a  thing  enough,  he  would  pay 
any  price  for  it,  even  marriage. 

She  was  very  skillful.  The  very  ardor  in  her  face 
was  in  her  favor.  Behind  her  hot  eyes  lurked  cold 
calculation.  She  would  put  the  thing  through,  and 
show  those  puling  nurses,  with  their  pious  eyes  and 
evening  prayers,  a  thing  or  two. 

During  that  entire  vacation  he  never  saw  her  in 
anything  more  elaborate  than  the  simplest  of  white 
dresses  modestly  open  at  the  throat,  sleeves  rolled 
up  to  show  her  satiny  arms.  There  were  no  other 
boarders  at  the  little  farmhouse.  She  sat  for  hours 

1 68 


in  the  summer  evenings  in  the  square  yard  filled  with 
apple  trees  that  bordered  the  highway,  carefully 
posed  over  a  book,  but  with  her  keen  eyes  always  on 
the  road.  She  read  Browning,  Emerson,  Swinburne. 
Once  he  found  her  with  a  book  that  she  hastily  con- 
cealed. He  insisted  on  seeing  it,  and  secured  it.  It 
was  a  book  on  brain  surgery.  Confronted  with  it, 
she  blushed  and  dropped  her  eyes. 

His  delighted  vanity  found  in  it  the  most  insidious 
of  compliments,  as  she  had  intended. 

"I  feel  such  an  idiot  when  I  am  with  you,1'  she 
said.  "I  wanted  to  know  a  little  more  about  the 
things  you  do." 

That  put  their  relationship  on  a  new  and  ad- 
vanced basis.  Thereafter  he  occasionally  talked  sur- 
gery instead  of  sentiment.  He  found  her  responsive, 
intelligent.  His  work,  a  sealed  book  to  his  women 
before,  lay  open  to  her. 

Now  and  then  their  professional  discussions  ended 
in  something  different.  The  two  lines  of  their  inter- 
est converged. 

"Gad ! "  he  said  one  day.  "  I  look  forward  to  these 
evenings.  I  can  talk  shop  with  you  without  either 
shocking  or  nauseating  you.  You  are  the  most 
intelligent  woman  I  know  —  and  one  of  the  pret- 
tiest.'1 

He  had  stopped  the  machine  on  the  crest  of  a 
hill  for  the  ostensible  purpose  of  admiring  the 
view. 

"As  long  as  you  talk  shop,"  she  said,  "  I  feel  that 
169 


there  is  nothing  wrong  in  our  being  together;  but 
when  you  say  the  other  thing  — " 

"Is  it  wrong  to  tell  a  pretty  woman  you  admire 
her?" 

"Under  our  circumstances,  yes." 

He  twisted  himself  around  in  the  seat  and  sat 
looking  at  her. 

"The  loveliest  mouth  in  the  world!"  he  said,  and 
kissed  her  suddenly. 

She  had  expected  it  for  at  least  a  week,  but  her 
surprise  was  well  done.  Well  done  also  was  her 
silence  during  the  homeward  ride. 

No,  she  was  not  angry,  she  said.  It  was  only  that 
he  had  set  her  thinking.  When  she  got  out  of  the  car, 
she  bade  him  good-night  and  good-bye.  He  only 
laughed. 

"  Don't  you  trust  me?  "  he  said,  leaning  out  to  her. 

She  raised  her  dark  eyes. 

"  It  is  not  that.    I  do  not  trust  myself." 

After  that  nothing  could  have  kept  him  away,  and 
she  knew  it. 

"Man  demands  both  danger  and  play;  therefore 
he  selects  woman  as  the  most  dangerous  of  toys.11  A 
spice  of  danger  had  entered  into  their  relationship. 
It  had  become  infinitely  piquant. 

He  motored  out  to  the  farm  the  next  day,  to  be 
told  that  Miss  Harrison  had  gone  for  a  long  walk 
and  had  not  said  when  she  would  be  back.  That 
pleased  him.  Evidently  she  was  frightened.  Every 
man  likes  to  think  that  he  is  a  bit  of  a  devil.  Dr. 

170 


Max  settled  his  tie,  and,  leaving  his  car  outside  the 
whitewashed  fence,  departed  blithely  on  foot  in  the 
direction  Carlotta  had  taken. 

She  knew  her  man,  of  course.  He  found  her,  face 
down,  under  a  tree,  looking  pale  and  worn  and  bear- 
ing all  the  evidence  of  a  severe  mental  struggle.  She 
rose  in  confusion  when  she  heard  his  step,  and  re- 
treated a  foot  or  two,  with  her  hands  out  before  her. 

"How  dare  you?"  she  cried.  "How  dare  you 
follow  me !  I  —  I  have  got  to  have  a  little  time 
alone.  I  have  got  to  think  things  out." 

He  knew  it  was  play-acting,  but  rather  liked  it; 
and,  because  he  was  quite  as  skillful  as  she  was,  he 
struck  a  match  on  the  trunk  of  the  tree  and  lighted 
a  cigarette  before  he  answered. 

"  I  was  afraid  of  this,"  he  said,  playing  up.  "You 
take  it  entirely  too  hard.  I  am  not  really  a  villain, 
Carlotta." 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  used  her  name. 

"Sit  down  and  let  us  talk  things  over." 

She  sat  down  at  a  safe  distance,  and  looked  across 
the  little  clearing  to  him  with  the  somber  eyes  that 
were  her  great  asset. 

"You  can  afford  to  be  very  calm,"  she  said,  " be- 
cause this  is  only  play  to  you.  I  know  it.  I've  known 
it  all  along.  I'm  a  good  listener  and  not  —  unattrac- 
tive. But  what  is  play  for  you  is  not  necessarily 
play  for  me.  I  am  going  away  from  here." 

For  the  first  time,  he  found  himself  believing  in 
her  sincerity.  Why,  the  girl  was  white.  He  did  n't 

171 


want  to  hurt  her.  If  she  cried  —  he  was  at  the  mercy 
of  any  woman  who  cried. 

"Give  up  your  training?" 

"What  else  can  I  do?  This  sort  of  thing  cannot 
go  on,  Dr.  Max." 

She  did  cry  then  —  real  tears ;  and  he  went  over 
beside  her  and  took  her  in  his  arms. 

"  Don't  do  that,"  he  said.  "  Please  don't  do  that. 
You  make  me  feel  like  a  scoundrel,  and  I  Ve  only 
been  taking  a  little  bit  of  happiness.  That's  all. 
I  swear  it." 

She  lifted  her  head  from  his  shoulder. 

"You  mean  you  are  happy  with  me?" 

"Very,  very  happy,"  said  Dr.  Max,  and  kissed 
her  again  on  the  lips. 

The  one  element  Carlotta  had  left  out  of  her  cal- 
culations was  herself.  She  had  known  the  man,  had 
taken  the  situation  at  its  proper  value.  But  she 
had  left  out  this  important  factor  in  the  equation, 
—  that  factor  which  in  every  relationship  between 
man  and  woman  determines  the  equation,  —  the 
woman. 

Into  her  calculating  ambition  had  come  a  new  and 
destroying  element.  She  who,  like  K.  in  his  little 
room  on  the  Street,  had  put  aside  love  and  the  things 
thereof,  found  that  it  would  not  be  put  aside.  By 
the  end  of  her  short  vacation  Carlotta  Harrison  was 
wildly  in  love  with  the  younger  Wilson. 

They  continued  to  meet,  not  as  often  as  before, 
but  once  a  week,  perhaps.  The  meetings  were  full 

172 


of  danger  now;  and  if  for  the  girl  they  lost  by  this 
quality,  they  gained  attraction  for  the  man.  She 
was  shrewd  enough  to  realize  her  own  situation.  The 
thing  had  gone  wrong.  She  cared,  and  he  did  not. 
It  was  his  game  now,  not  hers. 

All  women  are  intuitive;  women  in  love  are  dan- 
gerously so.  As  well  as  she  knew  that  his  passion  for 
her  was  not  the  real  thing,  so  also  she  realized  that 
there  was  growing  up  in  his  heart  something  akin 
to  the  real  thing  for  Sidney  Page.  Suspicion  became 
certainty  after  a  talk  they  had  over  the  supper- 
table  at  a  country  road-house  the  day  after  Chris- 
tine's wedding. 

11  How  was  the  wedding  —  tiresome?"  she  asked. 

"Thrilling!  There's  always  something  thrilling 
to  me  in  a  man  tying  himself  up  for  life  to  one  woman. 
It's  —  it's  so  reckless." 

Her  eyes  narrowed.  "That's  not  exactly  the  Law 
and  the  Prophets,  is  it?" 

"It's  the  truth.  To  think  of  selecting  out  of  all 
the  world  one  woman,  and  electing  to  spend  the  rest 
of  one's  days  with  her!  Although  — " 

His  eyes  looked  past  Carlotta  into  distance. 

"Sidney  Page  was  one  of  the  bridesmaids,"  he 
said  irrelevantly.  "She  was  lovelier  than  the  bride." 

"Pretty,  but  stupid,"  said  Carlotta.  "I  like  her. 
I  Ve  really  tried  to  teach  her  things,  but  —  you 
know  —  "  She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

Dr.  Max  was  learning  wisdom.  If  there  was  a 
twinkle  in  his  eye,  he  veiled  it  discreetly.  But,  once 

173 


again  in  the  machine,  he  bent  over  and  put  his  cheek 
against  hers. 

"  You  little  cat!  You're  jealous,"  he  said  exult- 
antly. 

Nevertheless,  although  he  might  smile,  the  image 
of  Sidney  lay  very  close  to  his  heart  those  autumn 
days.  And  Carlotta  knew  it. 

Sidney  came  off  night  duty  the  middle  of  No- 
vember. The  night  duty  had  been  a  time  of  com- 
parative peace  to  Carlotta.  There  were  no  evenings 
when  Dr.  Max  could  bring  Sidney  back  to  the  hos- 
pital in  his  car. 

Sidney's  half-days  at  home  were  occasions  for 
agonies  of  jealousy  on  Carlotta's  part.  On  such  an 
occasion,  a  month  after  the  wedding,  she  could  not 
contain  herself.  She  pleaded  her  old  excuse  of  head- 
ache, and  took  the  trolley  to  a  point  near  the  end 
of  the  Street.  After  twilight  fell,  she  slowly  walked 
the  length  of  the  Street.  Christine  and  Palmer  had 
not  returned  from  their  wedding  journey.  The  No- 
vember evening  was  not  cold,  and  on  the  little  bal- 
cony sat  Sidney  and  Dr.  Max.  K.  was  there,  too, 
had  she  only  known  it,  sitting  back  in  the  shadow 
and  saying  little,  his  steady  eyes  on  Sidney's  pro- 
file. 

But  this  Carlotta  did  not  know.  She  went  on 
down  the  Street  in  a  frenzy  of  jealous  anger. 

After  that  two  ideas  ran  concurrenf  in  Carlotta's 
mind:  one  was  to  get  Sidney  out  of  the  way;  the 

174 


other  was  to  make  Wilson  propose  to  her.  In  her 
heart  she  knew  that  on  the  first  depended  the  sec- 
ond. 

A  week  later  she  made  the  same  frantic  excursion, 
but  with  a  different  result.  Sidney  was  not  in  sight, 
or  Wilson.  But  standing  on  the  wooden  doorstep  of 
the  little  house  was  Le  Moyne.  The  ailanthus  trees 
were  bare  at  that  time,  throwing  gaunt  arms  up- 
ward to  the  November  sky.  The  street-lamp,  which 
in  the  summer  left  the  doorstep  in  the  shadow,  now 
shone  through  the  branches  and  threw  into  strong 
relief  Le  Moyne's  tall  figure  and  set  face.  Carlotta 
saw  him  too  late  to  retreat.  But  he  did  not  see  her. 
She  went  on,  startled,  her  busy  brain  scheming 
anew.  Another  element  had  entered  into  her  plot- 
ting. It  was  the  first  time  she  had  known  that  K. 
lived  in  the  Page  house.  It  gave  her  a  sense  of  un- 
certainty and  deadly  fear. 

She  made  her  first  friendly  overture  of  many  days 
to  Sidney  the  following  day.  They  met  in  the  locker- 
room  in  the  basement  where  the  street  clothing  for 
the  ward  patients  was  kept.  Here,  rolled  in  bundles 
and  ticketed,  side  by  side  lay  the  heterogeneous 
garments  in  which  the  patients  had  met  accident 
or  illness.  Rags  and  tidiness,  filth  and  cleanliness, 
lay  almost  touching. 

Far  away  on  the  other  side  of  the  white-washed 
basement,  men  were  unloading  gleaming  cans  of 
milk.  Floods  of  sunlight  came  down  the  cellar- 
way,  touching  their  white  coats  and  turning  the 

175 


cans  to  silver.  Everywhere  was  the  religion  of  the 
hospital,  which  is  order. 

Sidney,  harking  back  from  recent  slights  to  the 
staircase  conversations  of  her  night  duty,  smiled  at 
Carlotta  cheerfully. 

"A  miracle  is  happening,"  she  said.  "Grace 
Irving  is  going  out  to-day.  When  one  remembers 
how  ill  she  was  and  how  we  thought  she  could  not 
live,  it's  rather  a  triumph,  is  n't  it?" 

"Are  those  her  clothes?" 

Sidney  examined  with  some  dismay  the  elaborate 
negligee  garments  in  her  hand. 

"She  can't  go  out  in  those;  I  shall  have  to  lend 
her  something."  A  little  of  the  light  died  out  of  her 
face.  "She 's  had  a  hard  fight,  and  she  has  won,"  she 
said.  "But  when  I  think  of  what  she's  probably 
going  back  to  — " 

Carlotta  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"It's  all  in  the  day's  work,"  she  observed  indiffer- 
ently. "You  can  take  them  up  into  the  kitchen  and 
give  them  steady  work  paring  potatoes,  or  put  them 
in  the  laundry  ironing.  In  the  end  it's  the  same 
thing.  They  all  go  back." 

She  drew  a  package  from  the  locker  and  looked  at 
it  ruefully. 

"Well,  what  do  you  know  about  this?  Here's  a 
woman  who  came  in  in  a  nightgown  and  pair  of  slip- 
pers. And  now  she  wants  to  go  out  in  half  an  hour ! " 

She  turned,  on  her  way  out  of  the  locker-room,  and 
shot  a  quick  glance  at  Sidney. 


"  I  happened  to  be  on  your  street  the  other  night," 
she  said.  "  You  live  across  the  street  from  Wilsons', 
don't  you?" 

"Yes." 

"  I  thought  so ;  I  had  heard  you  speak  of  the  house. 
Your  —  your  brother  was  standing  on  the  steps." 

Sidney  laughed. 

"I  have  no  brother.  That's  a  joomer,  a  Mr.  Le 
Moyne.  It  is  n't  really  right  to  call  him  a  roomer; 
he's  one  of  the  family  now." 

"Le  Moyne!" 

He  had  even  taken  another  name.  It  had  hit  him 
hard,  for  sure. 

K.'s  name  had  struck  an  always  responsive  chord 
in  Sidney.  The  two  girls  went  toward  the  elevator 
together.  With  a  very  little  encouragement,  Sidney 
talked  of  K.  She  was  pleased  at  Miss  Harrison's 
friendly  tone,  glad  that  things  were  all  right  between 
them  again.  At  her  floor,  she  put  a  timid  hand  on  the 
girl's  arm. 

"I  was  afraid  I  had  offended  you  or  displeased 
you,"  she  said.  "  I  'm  so  glad  it  is  n't  so." 

Carlotta  shivered  under  her  hand. 

Things  were  not  going  any  too  well  with  K.  True, 
he  had  received  his  promotion  at  the  office,  and  with 
this  present  affluence  of  twenty-two  dollars  a  week 
he  was  able  to  do  several  things.  Mrs.  Rosenfeld 
now  washed  and  ironed  one  day  a  week  at  the  little 
house,  so  that  Katie  might  have  more  time  to  look 

177 


after  Anna.    He  had  increased  also  the  amount  of 
money  that  he  periodically  sent  East. 

So  far,  well  enough.  The  thing  that  rankled  and 
filled  him  with  a  sense  of  failure  was  Max  Wilson's 
attitude.  It  was  not  unfriendly;  it  was,  indeed,  con- 
sistently respectful,  almost  reverential.  But  he 
clearly  considered  Le  Moyne's  position  absurd. 

There  was  no  true  comradeship  between  the  two 
men ;  but  there  was  beginning  to  be  constant  associa- 
tion, and  lately  a  certain  amount  of  friction.  They 
thought  differently  about  almost  everything. 

Wilson  began  to  bring  all  his  problems  to  Le 
Moyne.  There  were  long  consultations  in  that  small 
upper  room.  Perhaps  more  than  one  man  or  woman 
who  did  not  know  of  K.'s  existence  owed  his  life  to 
him  that  fall. 

Under  K.'s  direction,  Max  did  marvels.  Cases 
began  to  come  in  to  him  from  the  surrounding  towns. 
To  his  own  daring  was  added  a  new  and  remark- 
able technique.  But  Le  Moyne,  who  had  found  re- 
signation if  not  content,  was  once  again  in  touch 
with  the  work  he  loved.  There  were  times  when, 
having  thrashed  a  case  out  together  and  outlined 
the  next  day's  work  for  Max,  he  would  walk  for 
hours  into  the  night  out  over  the  hills,  fighting  his 
battle.  The  longing  was  on  him  to  be  in  the  thick  of 
things  again.  The  thought  of  the  gas  office  and  its 
deadly  round  sickened  him. 

It  was  on  one  of  his  long  walks  that  K.  found 
Tillie. 

178 


It  was  December  then,  gray  and  raw,  with  a  wet 
snow  that  changed  to  rain  as  it  fell.  The  country 
roads  were  ankle-deep  with  mud,  the  wayside  paths 
thick  with  sodden  leaves.  The  dreariness  of  the 
countryside  that  Saturday  afternoon  suited  his 
mood.  He  had  ridden  to  the  end  of  the  street-car 
line,  and  started  his  walk  from  there.  As  was  his 
custom,  he  wore  no  overcoat,  but  a  short  sweater 
under  his  coat.  Somewhere  along  the  road  he  had 
picked  up  a  mongrel  dog,  and,  as  if  in  sheer  desire 
for  human  society,  it  trotted  companionably  at  his 
heels. 

Seven  miles  from  the  end  of  the  car  line  he  found 
a  road-house,  and  stopped  in  for  a  glass  of  Scotch. 
He  was  chilled  through.  The  dog  went  in  with  him, 
and  stood  looking  up  into  his  face.  It  was  as  if  he 
submitted,  but  wondered  why  this  indoors,  with 
the  scents  of  the  road  ahead  and  the  trails  of  rabbits 
over  the  fields. 

The  house  was  set  in  a  valley  at  the  foot  of  two 
hills.  Through  the  mist  of  the  December  afternoon, 
it  had  loomed  pleasantly  before  him.  The  door  was 
ajar,  and  he  stepped  into  a  little  hall  covered  with 
ingrain  carpet.  To  the  right  was  the  dining-room, 
the  table  covered  with  a  white  cloth,  and  in  its  exact 
center  an  uncompromising  bunch  of  dried  flowers. 
To  the  left,  the  typical  parlor  of  such  places.  It 
might  have  been  the  parlor  of  the  White  Springs 
Hotel  in  duplicate,  plush  self-rocker  and  all.  Over 
everything  was  silence  and  a  pervading  smeli  of 

179 


fresh  varnish.  The  house  was  aggressive  with  new 
paint  —  the  sagging  old  floors  shone  with  it,  the 
doors  gleamed. 

"Hello!"  called  K. 

There  were  slow  footsteps  upstairs,  the  closing 
of  a  bureau  drawer,  the  rustle  of  a  woman's  dress 
coming  down  the  stairs.  K.,  standing  uncertainly 
on  a  carpet  oasis  that  was  the  center  of  the  parlor 
varnish,  stripped  off  his  sweater. 

"Not  very  busy  here  this  afternoon!"  he  said  to 
the  unseen  female  on  the  staircase.  Then  he  saw 
her.  It  was  Tillie.  She  put  a  hand  against  the  door- 
frame to  steady  herself.  Tillie  surely,  but  a  new 
Tillie!  With  her  hair  loosened  around  her  face,  a 
fresh  blue  chintz  dress  open  at  the  throat,  a  black 
velvet  bow  on  her  breast,  here  was  a  Tillie  fuller, 
infinitely  more  attractive,  than  he  had  remembered 
her.  But  she  did  not  smile  at  him.  There  was  some- 
thing about  her  eyes  not  unlike  the  dog's  expression, 
submissive,  but  questioning. 

"Well,  you  've  found  me,  Mr.  Le  Moyne."  And, 
when  he  held  out  his  hand,  smiling:  "  I  just  had  to 
do  it,  Mr.  K." 

"And  how's  everything  going?  You  look  mighty 
fine  and  —  happy,  Tillie." 

"  I'm  all  right.  Mr.  Schwitter  's gone  to  the  post- 
office.  He'll  be  back  at  five.  Will  you  have  a  cup 
of  tea,  or  will  you  have  something  else?" 

The  instinct  of  the  Street  was  still  strong  in  Tillie. 
The  Street  did  not  approve  of  "something  else." 

1 80 


"Scotch-and-soda,"  said  Le  Moyne.  "And  shali 
I  buy  a  ticket  for  you  to  punch?" 

But  she  only  smiled  faintly.  He  was  sorry  he 
had  made  the  blunder.  Evidently  the  Street  and  all 
that  pertained  was  a  sore  subject. 

So  this  was  Tillie's  new  home!  It  was  for  this  that 
she  had  exchanged  the  virginal  integrity  of  her  life 
at  Mrs.  McKee's  —  for  this  wind-swept  little  house, 
tidily  ugly,  infinitely  lonely.  There  were  two  crayon 
enlargements  over  the  mantel.  One  was  Sch witter, 
evidently.  The  other  was  the  paper-doll  wife.  K. 
wondered  what  curious  instinct  of  self-abnegation 
had  caused  Tillie  to  leave  the  wife  there  undisturbed. 
Back  of  its  position  of  honor  he  saw  the  girl's  reali- 
zation of  her  own  situation.  On  a  wooden  shelf, 
exactly  between  the  two  pictures,  was  another  vase 
of  dried  flowers. 

Tillie  brought  the  Scotch,  already  mixed,  in  a 
tall  glass.  K.  would  have  preferred  to  mix  it  himself, 
but  the  Scotch  was  good.  He  felt  a  new  respect  for 
Mr.  Sch  witter. 

"You  gave  me  a  turn  at  first,"  said  Tillie.  "But 
I  am  right  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Le  Moyne.  Now 
that  the  roads  are  bad,  nobody  comes  very  much. 
It's  lonely." 

Until  now,  K.  and  Tillie,  when  they  met,  had 
met  conversationally  on  the  common  ground  of 
food.  They  no  longer  had  that,  and  between  them 
both  lay  like  a  barrier  their  last  conversation. 

"Are  you  happy,  Tillie?"  said  K.  suddenly. 
181 


"  I  expected  you  'd  ask  me  that.  I  've  been  think- 
ing what  to  say." 

Her  reply  set  him  watching  her  face.  More  at- 
tractive it  certainly  was,  but  happy?  There  was  a 
wistfulness  about  Tillie's  mouth  that  set  him  won- 
dering. 

" Is  he  good  to  you?" 

"He's  about  the  best  man  on  earth.  He's  never 
said  a  cross  word  to  me  —  even  at  first,  when  I  was 
panicky  and  scared  at  every  sound." 

Le  Moyne  nodded  understandingly. 

"  I  burned  a  lot  of  victuals  when  I  first  came,  run- 
ning off  and  hiding  when  I  heard  people  around  the 
place.  It  used  to  seem  to  me  that  what  I'd  done 
was  written  on  my  face.  But  he  never  said  a 
word." 

"That's  over  now?" 

"I  don't  run.    I  am  still  frightened." 

"Then  it  has  been  worth  while?" 

Tillie  glanced  up  at  the  two  pictures  over  the 
mantel. 

"Sometimes  it  is  —  when  he  comes  in  tired,  and 
I've  a  chicken  ready  or  some  fried  ham  and  eggs 
for  his  supper,  and  I  see  him  begin  to  look  rested. 
He  lights  his  pipe,  and  many  an  evening  he  helps 
me  with  the  dishes.  He's  happy;  he's  getting 
fat." 

"But  you?"  Le  Moyne  persisted. 

"  I  would  n't  go  back  to  where  I  was,  but  I  am  not 
happy,  Mr.  Le  Moyne.  There's  no  use  pretending. 

182 


I  want  a  baby.  All  along  I  Ve  wanted  a  baby.  He 
wants  one.  This  place  is  his,  and  he  'd  like  a  boy  to 
come  into  it  when  he's  gone.  But,  my  God!  if  I 
did  have  one,  what  would  it  be?" 

K.'s  eyes  followed  hers  to  the  picture  and  the  ever- 
lastings underneath. 

"And  she  —  there  is  n't  any  prospect  of  her  — ?" 

"No." 

There  was  no  solution  to  Tillie's  problem.  Le 
Moyne,  standing  on  the  hearth  and  looking  down  at 
her,  realized  that,  after  all,  Tillie  must  work  out  her 
own  salvation.  He  could  offer  her  no  comfort. 

They  talked  far  into  the  growing  twilight  of  the 
afternoon.  Tillie  was  hungry  for  news  of  the  Street: 
must  know  of  Christine's  wedding,  of  Harriet,  of 
Sidney  in  her  hospital.  And  when  he  had  told  her 
all,  she  sat  silent,  rolling  her  handkerchief  in  her 
fingers.  Then:  — 

"Take  the  four  of  us,"  she  said  suddenly, — 
"Christine  Lorenz  and  Sidney  Page  and  Miss  Har- 
riet and  me,  —  and  which  one  would  you  have  picked 
to  go  wrong  like  this?  I  guess,  from  the  looks  of 
things,  most  folks  would  have,  thought  it  would  be 
the  Lorenz  girl.  They  'd  have  picked  Harriet  Ken- 
nedy for  the  hospital,  and  me  for  the  dressmaking, 
and  it  would  have  been  Sidney  Page  that  got  mar- 
ried and  had  an  automobile.  Well,  that's  life." 

She  looked  up  at  K.  shrewdly. 

''There  were  some  people  out  here  lately.  They 
did  n't  know  me,  and  I  heard  them  talking.  They 

183 


said  Sidney  Page  was  going  to  marry  Dr.  Max 
Wilson." 

"  Possibly.  I  believe  there  is  no  engagement  yet." 

He  had  finished  with  his  glass.  Tillie  rose  to  take 
it  away.  As  she  stood  before  him  she  looked  up  into 
his  face. 

41  If  you  like  her  as  well  as  I  think  you  do,  Mr.  Le 
Moyne,  you  won't  let  him  get  her." 

"I  am  afraid  that's  not  up  to  me.,  is  it?  What 
would  I  do  with  a  wife,  Tillie?" 

''You'd  be  faithful  to  her.  That's  more  than  he 
would  be.  I  guess,  in  the  long  run,  that  would  count 
more  than  money." 

That  was  what  K.  took  home  with  him  after  his 
encounter  with  Tillie.  He  pondered  it  on  his  way 
back  to  the  street-car,  as  he  struggled  against  the 
wind.  The  weather  had  changed.  Wagon-tracks 
along  the  road  were  filled  with  water  and  had  begun 
to  freeze.  The  rain  had  turned  to  a  driving  sleet 
that  cut  his  face.  Halfway  to  the  trolley  line,  the 
dog  turned  off  into  a  by-road.  K.  did  not  miss  him. 
The  dog  stared  after  him,  one  foot  raised.  Once 
again  his  eyes  were  like  Tillie's,  as  she  had  waved 
good-bye  from  the  porch. 

His  head  sunk  on  his  breast,  K.  covered  miles  of 
road  with  his  long,  swinging  pace,  and  fought  his 
battle.  Was  Tillie  right,  after  all,  and  had  he  been 
wrong?  Why  should  he  efface  himself,  if  it  meant 
Sidney's  unhappiness?  Why  not  accept  Wilson's 
offer  and  start  over  again?  Then  if  things  went 

184 


well  —  the  temptation  was  strong  that  stormy 
afternoon.  He  put  it  from  him  at  last,  because  of 
the  conviction  that  whatever  he  did  would  make  no 
change  in  Sidney's  ultimate  decision.  If  she  cared 
enough  for  Wilson,  she  would  marry  him.  He  felt 
that  she  cared  enough. 


CHAPTER  XV 

PALMER  and  Christine  returned  from  their  wedding 
trip  the  day  K.  discovered  Tillie.  Anna  Page  made 
much  of  the  arrival,  insisted  on  dinner  for  them  that 
night  at  the  little  house,  must  help  Christine  un- 
pack her  trunks  and  arrange  her  wedding  gifts  about 
the  apartment.  She  was  brighter  than  she  had  been 
for  days,  more  interested.  The  wonders  of  the 
trousseau  filled  her  with  admiration  and  a  sort  of 
jealous  envy  for  Sidney,  who  could  have  none  of 
these  things.  In  a  pathetic  sort  of  way,  she  mothered 
Christine  in  lieu  of  her  own  daughter. 

And  it  was  her  quick  eye  that  discerned  something 
wrong.  Christine  was  not  quite  happy.  Under  her 
excitement  was  an  undercurrent  of  reserve.  Anna, 
rich  in  maternity  if  in  nothing  else,  felt  it,  and  in 
reply  to  some  speech  of  Christine's  that  struck  her 
as  hard,  not  quite  fitting,  she  gave  her  a  gentle 
admonishing. 

"Married  life  takes  a  little  adjusting,  my  dear," 
she  said.  "After  we  have  lived  to  ourselves  for  a 
number  of  years,  it  is  not  easy  to  live  for  some  one 
else." 

Christine  straightened  from  the  tea-table  she  was 
arranging. 

"That's  true,  of  course.  But  why  should  the 
woman  do  all  the  adjusting?  " 

186 


"Men  are  more  set,"  said  poor  Anna,  who  had 
never  been  set  in  anything  in  her  life.  "  It  is  harder 
for  them  to  give  in.  And,  of  course,  Palmer  is  older, 
and  his  habits — " 

"The  less  said  about  Palmer's  habits  the  better/' 
flashed  Christine.  "I  appear  to  have  married  a 
bunch  of  habits." 

She  gave  over  her  unpacking,  and  sat  down  list- 
lessly by  the  fire,  while  Anna  moved  about,  busy 
with  the  small  activities  that  delighted  her. 

Six  weeks  of  Palmer's  society  in  unlimited  amounts 
had  bored  Christine  to  distraction.  She  sat  with 
folded  hands  and  looked  into  a  future  that  seemed 
to  include  nothing  but  Palmer:  Palmer  asleep  with 
his  mouth  open;  Palmer  shaving  before  breakfast, 
and  irritable  until  he  had  had  his  coffee;  Palmer 
yawning  over  the  newspaper. 

And  there  was  a  darker  side  to  the  picture  than 
that.  There  was  a  vision  of  Palmer  slipping  quietly 
into  his  room  and  falling  into  the  heavy  sleep,  not 
of  drunkenness  perhaps,  but  of  drink.  That  had 
happened  twice.  She  knew  now  that  it  would  hap- 
pen again  and  again,  as  long  as  he  lived.  Drink- 
ing leads  to  other  things.  The  letter  she  had  re- 
ceived on  her  wedding  day  was  burned  into  her 
brain.  There  would  be  that  in  the  future  too, 
probably. 

Christine  was  not  without  courage.  She  was 
making  a  brave  clutch  at  happiness.  But  that  after- 
noon of  the  first  day  at  home  she  was  terrified.  She 

187 


was  glad  when  Anna  went  and  left  her  alone  by  her 
fire. 

But  when  she  heard  a  step  in  the  hall,  she  opened 
the  door  herself.  She  had  determined  to  meet 
Palmer  with  a  smile.  Tears  brought  nothing;  she 
had  learned  that  already.  Men  liked  smiling  women 
and  good  cheer.  "  Daughters  of  joy,"  they  called 
girls  like  the  one  on  the  Avenue.  So  she  opened  the 
door  smiling. 

But  it  was  K.  in  the  hall.  She  waited  while,  with 
his  back  to  her,  he  shook  himself  like  a  great  dog. 
When  he  turned,  she  was  watching  him. 

"  You!"  said  Le  Moyne.  "Why,  welcome  home.15 

He  smiled  down  at  her,  his  kindly  eyes  lighting. 

"It's  good  to  be  home  and  to  see  you  again. 
Won't  you  come  in  to  my  fire?" 

"I'm  wet." 

"All  the  more  reason  why  you  should  come,"  she 
cried  gayly,  and  held  the  door  wide. 

The  little  parlor  was  cheerful  with  fire  and  soft 
lamps,  bright  with  silver  vases  full  of  flowers.  K. 
stepped  inside  and  took  a  critical  survey  of  the 
room. 

"Well!"  he  said.  "Between  us  we  have  made  a 
pretty  good  job  of  this,  I  with  the  paper  and  the 
wiring,  and  you  with  your  pretty  furnishings  and 
your  pretty  self." 

He  glanced  at  her  appreciatively.  Christine  saw 
his  approval,  and  was  happier  than  she  had  been  for 
weeks.  She  put  on  the  thousand  little  airs  and  graces 

1 88 


that  were  a  part  of  her  —  held  her  chin  high,  looked 
up  at  him  with  the  little  appealing  glances  that  she 
had  found  were  wasted  on  Palmer.  She  lighted  the 
spirit-lamp  to  make  tea,  drew  out  the  best  chair 
for  him,  and  patted  a  cushion  with  her  well-cared-for 
hands. 

"A  big  chair  for  a  big  man!"  she  said.  "And  see, 
here's  a  footstool." 

"  I  am  ridiculously  fond  of  being  babied,"  said  K., 
and  quite  basked  in  his  new  atmosphere  of  well- 
being.  This  was  better  than  his  empty  room  up- 
stairs, than  tramping  along  country  roads,  than  his 
own  thoughts. 

"And  now,  how  is  everything?"  asked  Christine 
from  across  the  fire.  "Do  tell  me  all  the  scandal  of 
the  Street." 

"There  has  been  no  scandal  since  you  went 
away,"  said  K.  And,  because  each  was  glad  not  to 
be  left  to  his  own  thoughts,  they  laughed  at  this  bit 
of  unconscious  humor. 

"Seriously,"  said  Le  Moyne,  "we  have  been  very 
quiet.  I  have  had  my  salary  raised  and  am  now  re- 
joicing in  twenty- two  dollars  a  week.  I  am  still  not 
accustomed  to  it.  Just  when  I  had  all  my  ideas 
fixed  for  fifteen,  I  get  twenty- two  and  have  to  re- 
assemble them.  I  am  disgustingly  rich." 

"It  is  very  disagreeable  when  one's  income  be- 
comes a  burden,"  said  Christine  gravely. 

She  was  finding  in  Le  Moyne  something  that 
she  needed  just  then  —  a  solidity,  a  sort  of  dependa- 

189 


bility,  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  heaviness.  She 
felt  that  here  was  a  man  she  could  trust,  almost  con- 
fide in.  She  liked  his  long  hands,  his  shabby  but 
well-cut  clothes,  his  fine  profile  with  its  strong  chin. 
She  left  off  her  little  affectations,  —  a  tribute  to  his 
own  lack  of  them,  —  and  sat  back  in  her  chair, 
watching  the  fire. 

When  K.  chose,  he  could  talk  well.  The  Howes 
had  been  to  Bermuda  on  their  wedding  trip.  He 
knew  Bermuda;  that  gave  them  a  common  ground, 
Christine  relaxed  under  his  steady  voice.  As  for  K., 
he  frankly  enjoyed  the  little  visit  —  drew  himself  at 
last  with  regret  out  of  his  chair. 

"  You  Ve  been  very  nice  to  ask  me  in,  Mrs.  Howe," 
he  said.  "I  hope  you  will  allow  me  to  come  again. 
But,  of  course,  you  are  going  to  be  very  gay." 

It  seemed  to  Christine  she  would  never  be  gay 
again.  She  did  not  want  him  to  go  away.  The  sound 
of  his  deep  voice  gave  her  a  sense  of  security.  She 
liked  the  clasp  of  the  hand  he  held  out  to  her,  when 
at  last  he  made  a  move  toward  the  door. 

"Tell  Mr.  Howe  I  am  sorry  he  missed  our  little 
party,"  said  Le  Moyne.  "And  —  thank  you." 

"Will  you  come  again?"  asked  Christine  rather 
wistfully. 

"Just  as  often  as  you  ask  me." 

As  he  closed  the  door  behind  him,  there  was  a 
new  light  in  Christine's  eyes.  Things  were  not  right, 
but,  after  all,  they  were  not  hopeless.  One  might 
still  have  friends,  big  and  strong,  steady  of  eye  and 

190 


voice.     When   Palmer  came  home,  the  smile  she 
gave  him  was  not  forced. 

The  day's  exertion  had  been  bad  for  Anna.  Le 
Moyne  found  her  on  the  couch  in  the  transformed 
sewing-room,  and  gave  her  a  quick  glance  of  appre- 
hension. She  was  propped  up  high  with  pillows,  with 
a  bottle  of  aromatic  ammonia  beside  her. 

"Just  —  short  of  breath,"  she  panted.  "I  —  I 
must  get  down.  Sidney  —  is  coming  home  —  to 
supper;  and  —  the  others  —  Palmer  and  — " 

That  was  as  far  as  she  got.  K.,  watch  in  hand, 
found  her  pulse  thin,  stringy,  irregular.  He  had 
been  prepared  for  some  such  emergency,  and  he  hur- 
ried into  his  room  for  amyl-nitrate.  When  he  came 
back  she  was  almost  unconscious.  There  was  no 
time  even  to  call  Katie.  He  broke  the  capsule  in  a 
towel,  and  held  it  over  her  face.  After  a  time  the 
spasm  relaxed,  but  her  condition  remained  alarming. 

Harriet,  who  had  come  home  by  that  time,  sat 
by  the  couch  and  held  her  sister's  hand.  Only  once 
in  the  next  hour  or  so  did  she  speak.  They  had  sent 
for  Dr.  Ed,  but  he  had  not  come  yet.  Harriet  was 
too  wretched  to  notice  the  professional  manner  in 
which  K.  set  to  work  over  Anna. 

"I've  been  a  very  hard  sister  to  her,'*  she  said. 
"If  you  can  pull  her  through,  I'll  try  to  make  up 
for  it." 

Christine  sat  on  the  stairs  outside,  frightened  and 
helpless.  They  had  sent  for  Sidney;  but  the  little 

191 


house  had  no  telephone,  and  the  message  was  slow 
in  getting  off. 

At  six  o'clock  Dr.  Ed  came  panting  up  the  stairs 
and  into  the  room.  K.  stood  back. 

"Well,  this  is  sad,  Harriet,"  said  Dr.  Ed.  "Why  in 
the  name  of  Heaven,  when  I  was  n't  around,  did  n't 
you  get  another  doctor.  If  she  had  had  some  amyl- 
nitrate — " 

"I  gave  her  some  nitrate  of  amyl,"  said  K. 
quietly.  "There  was  really  no  time  to  send  for 
anybody.  She  almost  went  under  at  half-past  five." 

Max  had  kept  his  word,  and  even  Dr.  Ed  did  not 
suspect  K.'s  secret.  He  gave  a  quick  glance  at  this 
tall  young  man  who  spoke  so  quietly  of  what  he  had 
done  for  the  sick  woman,  and  went  on  with  his  work. 

Sidney  arrived  a  little  after  six,  and  from  that 
moment  the  confusion  in  the  sick-room  was  at  an 
end.  She  moved  Christine  from  the  stairs,  where 
Katie  on  her  numerous  errands  must  crawl  over  her; 
set  Harriet  to  warming  her  mother's  bed  and  getting 
it  ready ;  opened  windows,  brought  order  and  quiet. 
And  then,  with  death  in  her  eyes,  she  took  up  her 
position  beside  her  mother.  This  was  no  time  for 
weeping;  that  would  come  later.  Once  she  turned  to 
K.,  standing  watchfully  beside  her. 

"I  think  you  have  known  this  for  a  long  time," 
she  said.  And,  when  he  did  not  answer:  "Why  did 
you  let  me  stay  away  from  her?  It  would  have  been 
such  a  little  time!" 

192 


"We  were  trying  to  do  our  best  for  both  of  you," 
he  replied. 

Anna  was  unconscious  and  sinking  fast.  One 
thought  obsessed  Sidney.  She  repeated  it  over  and 
over.  It  came  as  a  cry  from  the  depths  of  the  girl's 
new  experience. 

"She  has  had  so  little  of  life,"  she  said,  over  and 
over.  "So  little!  Just  this  Street.  She  never  knew 
anything  else." 

And  finally  K.  took  it  up. 

"After  all,  Sidney,"  he  said,  "the  Street  is  life:  the 
world  is  only  many  streets.  She  had  a  great  deal. 
She  had  love  and  content,  and  she  had  you." 

Anna  died  a  little  after  midnight,  a  quiet  passing, 
so  that  only  Sidney  and  the  two  men  knew  when  she 
went  away.  It  was  Harriet  who  collapsed.  During 
all  that  long  evening  she  had  sat  looking  back  over 
years  of  small  unkindnesses.  The  thorn  of  Anna's 
inefficiency  had  always  rankled  in  her  flesh.  She 
had  been  hard,  uncompromising,  thwarted.  And 
now  it  was  forever  too  late. 

K.  had  watched  Sidney  carefully.  Once  he  thought 
she  was  fainting,  and  went  to  her.  But  she  shook  her 
head. 

"  I  am  all  right.  Do  you  think  you  could  get  them 
all  out  of  the  room  and  let  me  have  her  alone  for 
just  a  few  minutes?" 

He  cleared  the  room,  and  took  up  his  vigil  outside 
the  door.  And,  as  he  stood  there,  he  thought  of  what 
he  had  said  to  Sidney  about  the  Street.  It  was  a 

193 


world  of  its  own.  Here  in  this  very  house  were  death 
and  separation ;  Harriet's  starved  life ;  Christine  and 
Palmer  beginning  a  long  and  doubtful  future  to- 
gether; himself,  a  failure,  and  an  impostor. 

When  he  opened  the  door  again,  Sidney  was  stand- 
ing by  her  mother's  bed.  He  went  to  her,  and  she 
turned  and  put  her  head  against  his  shoulder  like 
a  tired  child. 

"Take  me  away,  K.,"  she  said  pitifully. 

And,  with  his  arm  around  her,  he  led  her  out 
of  the  room. 

Outside  of  her  small  immediate  circle  Anna's 
death  was  hardly  felt.  The  little  house  went  on 
much  as  before.  Harriet  carried  back  to  her  business 
a  heaviness  of  spirit  that  made  it  difficult  to  bear 
with  the  small  irritations  of  her  day.  Perhaps  Anna's 
incapacity,  which  had  always  annoyed  her,  had 
been  physical.  She  must  have  had  her  trouble  a 
long  time.  She  remembered  other  women  of  the 
Street  who  had  crept  through  inefficient  days,  and 
had  at  last  laid  down  their  burdens  and  closed  their 
mild  eyes,  to  the  lasting  astonishment  of  their  fami- 
lies. What  did  they  think  about,  these  women,  as 
they  pottered  about?  Did  they  resent  the  impatience 
that  met  their  lagging  movements,  the  indifference 
that  would  not  see  how  they  were  failing?  Hot  tears 
fell  on  Harriet's  fashion-book  as  it  lay  on  her  knee, 
not  only  for  Anna  —  for  Anna's  prototypes  every- 
where. 

194 


On  Sidney  —  and  in  less  measure,  of  course,  OH 
K.  —  fell  the  real  brunt  of  the  disaster.  Sidney  kept 
up  well  until  after  the  funeral,  but  went  down  the 
next  day  with  a  low  fever. 

"Overwork  and  grief,"  Dr.  Ed  said,  and  sternly 
forbade  the  hospital  again  until  Christmas.  Morn- 
ing and  evening  K.  stopped  at  her  door  and  inquired 
for  her,  and  morning  and  evening  came  Sidney's 
reply:  — 

"Much  better.   I'll  surely  be  up  to-morrow." 

But  the  days  dragged  on  and  she  did  not  get 
about. 

Downstairs,  Christine  and  Palmer  had  entered  on 
the  round  of  midwinter  gayeties.  Palmer's  "crowd " 
was  a  lively  one.  There  were  dinners  and  dances, 
week-end  excursions  to  country-houses.  The  Street 
grew  accustomed  to  seeing  automobiles  stop  before 
the  little  house  at  all  hours  of  the  night.  Johnny 
Rosenfeld,  driving  Palmer's  car,  took  to  falling 
asleep  at  the  wheel  in  broad  daylight,  and  voiced  his 
discontent  to  his  mother. 

"  You  never  know  where  you  are  with  them  guys," 
he  said  briefly.  "We  start  out  for  half  an  hour's  run 
in  the  evening,  and  get  home  with  the  milk-wagons. 
And  the  more  some  of  them  have  had  to  drink,  the 
more  they  want  to  drive  the  machine.  If  I  get  a 
chance,  I'm  going  to  beat  it  while  the  wind's  my 
way." 

But,  talk  as  he  might,  in  Johnny  Rosenfeld's 
loyal  heart  there  was  no  thought  of  desertion. 

195 


Palmer  had  given  him  a  man's  job,  and  he  would 
stick  by  it,  no  matter  what  came. 

There  were  some  things  that  Johnny  Rosenfeld 
did  not  tell  his  mother.  There  were  evenings  when 
the  Howe  car  was  filled,  not  with  Christine  and  her 
friends,  but  with  women  of  a  different  world ;  even- 
ings when  the  destination  was  not  a  country  estate, 
but  a  road-house;  evenings  when  Johnny  Rosenfeld, 
ousted  from  the  driver's  seat  by  some  drunken  youth, 
would  hold  tight  to  the  swinging  car  and  say  such 
fragments  of  prayers  as  he  could  remember.  Johnny 
Rosenfeld,  who  had  started  life  with  few  illusions, 
was  in  danger  of  losing  such  as  he  had. 

One  such  night  Christine  put  in,  lying  wakefully 
in  her  bed,  while  the  clock  on  the  mantel  tolled 
hour  after  hour  into  the  night.  Palmer  did  not  come 
home  at  all.  He  sent  a  note  from  the  office  in  the 
morning:  — 

"I  hope  you  are  not  worried,  darling.  The  car 
broke  down  near  the  Country  Club  last  night,  and 
there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  spend  the  night  there. 
I  would  have  sent  you  word,  but  I  did  not  want  to 
rouse  you.  What  do  you  say  to  the  theater  to-night 
and  supper  afterward?" 

Christine  was  learning.  She  telephoned  the  Coun- 
try Club  that  morning,  and  found  that  Palmer  had 
not  been  there.  But,  although  she  knew  now  that 
he  was  deceiving  her,  as  he  always  had  deceived 

196 


her,  as  probably  he  always  would,  she  hesitated  to 
confront  him  with  what  she  knew.  She  shrank,. as 
many  a  woman  has  shrunk  before,  from  confronting 
him  with  his  lie. 

But  the  second  time  it  happened,  she  was  roused. 
It  was  almost  Christmas  then,  and  Sidney  was  well 
on  the  way  to  recovery,  thinner  and  very  white, 
but  going  slowly  up  and  down  the  staircase  on  K.'s 
arm,  and  sitting  with  Harriet  and  K.  at  the  dinner- 
table.  She  was  begging  to  be  back  on  duty  for 
Christmas,  and  K.  felt  that  he  would  have  to  give 
her  up  soon. 

At  three  o'clock  one  morning  Sidney  roused  from 
a  light  sleep  to  hear  a  rapping  on  her  door. 

"Is  that  you,  Aunt  Harriet?'*  she  called. 

"It's  Christine.    May  I  come  in?" 

Sidney  unlocked  her  door.  Christine  slipped  into 
the  room.  She  carried  a  candle,  and  before  she 
spoke  she  looked  at  Sidney's  watch  on  the  bedside 
table. 

"  I  hoped  my  clock  was  wrong,"  she  said.  "  I  am 
sorry  to  waken  you,  Sidney,  but  I  don't  know  what 
to  do." 

"Are  you  ill?" 

"No.   Palmer  has  not  come  home." 

"What  time  is  it?" 

"After  three  o'clock." 

Sidney  had  lighted  the  gas  and  was  throwing  on 
her  dressing-gown. 

"When  he  went  out  did  he  say  — " 
197 


"He  said  nothing.  We  had  been  quarreling. 
Sidney,  I  am  going  home  in  the  morning." 

"You  don't  mean  that,  do  you?" 

"Don't  I  look  as  if  I  mean  it?  How  much  of 
this  sort  of  thing  is  a  woman  supposed  to  en- 
dure?" 

"Perhaps  he  has  been  delayed.  These  things 
always  seem  terrible  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  but 
by  morning  — " 

Christine  whirled  on  her. 

"This  isn't  the  first  time.  You  remember  the 
letter  I  got  on  my  wedding  day?" 

"Yes." 

"He's  gone  back  to  her." 

"Christine!  Oh,  I  am  sure  you're  wrong.  He's 
devoted  to  you.  I  don't  believe  it!" 

"Believe  it  or  not,"  said  Christine  doggedly, 
"that 's  exactly  what  has  happened.  I  got  something 
out  of  that  little  rat  of  a  Rosenfeld  boy,  and  the  rest 
I  know  because  I  know  Palmer.  He 's  out  with  her 
to-night." 

The  hospital  had  taught  Sidney  one  thing:  that 
it  took  many  people  to  make  a  world,  and  that  out 
of  these  some  were  inevitably  vicious.  But  vice  had 
remained  for  her  a  clear  abstraction.  There  were 
such  people,  and  because  one  was  in  the  world  for 
service  one  cared  for  them.  Even  the  Saviour  had 
been  kind  to  the  woman  of  the  streets. 

But  here  abruptly  Sidney  found  the  great  injustice 
of  the  world  —  that  because  of  this  vice  the  good 

198 


suffer  more  than  the  wicked.  Her  young  spirit  rose 
in  hot  rebellion. 

1 '  It  is  n't  fair ! "  she  cried.  "  It  makes  me  hate  all 
the  men  in  the  world.  Palmer  cares  for  you,  and  yet 
he  can  do  a  thing  like  this!" 

Christine  was  pacing  nervously  up  and  down  the 
room.  Mere  companionship  had  soothed  her.  She 
was  now,  on  the  surface  at  least,  less  excited  than 
Sidney. 

"They  are  not  all  like  Palmer,  thank  Heaven," 
she  said.  "There  are  decent  men.  My  father  is  one, 
and  your  K.,  here  in  the  house,  is  another." 

At  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  Palmer  Howe  came 
home.  Christine  met  him  in  the  lower  hall.  He 
was  rather  pale,  but  entirely  sober.  She  confronted 
him  in  her  straight  white  gown  and  waited  for  him 
to  speak. 

"I  am  sorry  to  be  so  late,  Chris,"  he  said.  "The 
fact  is,  I  am  all  in.  I  was  driving  the  car  out  Seven 
Mile  Run.  We  blew  out  a  tire  and  the  thing  turned 


over." 


Christine  noticed  then  that  his  right  arm  was 
hanging  inert  by  his  side. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

YOUNG  Howe  had  been  firmly  resolved  to  give  up 
all  his  bachelor  habits  with  his  wedding  day.  In  his 
indolent,  rather  selfish  way,  he  was  much  in  love 
with  his  wife. 

But  with  the  inevitable  misunderstandings  of  the 
first  months  of  marriage  had  come  a  desire  to  be 
appreciated  once  again  at  his  face  value.  Grace 
had  taken  him,  not  for  what  he  was,  but  for  what  he 
seemed  to  be.  With  Christine  the  veil  was  rent. 
She  knew  him  now  —  all  his  small  indolences,  his 
affectations,  his  weaknesses.  Later  on,  like  other 
women  since  the  world  began,  she  would  learn  to 
dissemble,  to  affect  to  believe  him  what  he  was 
not. 

Grace  had  learned  this  lesson  long  ago.  It  was  the 
A  B  C  of  her  knowledge.  And  so,  back  to  Grace  six 
weeks  after  his  wedding  day  came  Palmer  Howe, 
not  with  a  suggestion  to  renew  the  old  relationship, 
but  for  comradeship. 

Christine  sulked  —  he  wanted  good  cheer;  Chris- 
tine was  intolerant  —  he  wanted  tolerance ;  she  dis- 
approved of  him  and  showed  her  disapproval  —  he 
wanted  approval.  He  wanted  life  to  be  comfortable 
and  cheerful,  without  recriminations,  a  little  work 
and  much  play,  a  drink  when  one  was  thirsty. 
Distorted  though  it  was,  and  founded  on  a  wrong 

200 


basis,  perhaps,  deep  in  his  heart  Palmer's  only  long- 
ing was  for  happiness;  but  this  happiness  must  be 
of  an  active  sort  —  not  content,  which  is  passive, 
but  enjoyment. 

"Come  on  out,"  he  said.  "I've  got  a  car  now. 
No  taxi  working  its  head  off  for  us.  Just  a  little  run 
over  the  country  roads,  eh?" 

It  was  the  afternoon  of  the  day  before  Christine's 
night  visit  to  Sidney.  The  office  had  been  closed, 
owing  to  a  death,  and  Palmer  was  in  possession  of  a 
holiday. 

"Come  on,"  he  coaxed.  "We'll  go  out  to  the 
Climbing  Rose  and  have  supper." 

"  I  don't  want  to  go." 

"That's  not  true,  Grace,  and  you  know  it." 

"You  and  I  are  through." 

"It's  your  doing,  not  mine.  The  roads  are  frozen 
hard ;  an  hour's  run  into  the  country  will  bring  your 
color  back." 

"Much  you  care  about  that.  Go  and  ride  with 
your  wife,"  said  the  girl,  and  flung  away  from  him. 

The  last  few  weeks  had  filled  out  her  thin  figure-, 
but  she  still  bore  traces  of  her  illness.  Her  short  hair 
was  curled  over  her  head.  She  looked  curiously 
boyish,  almost  sexless. 

Because  she  saw  him  wince  when  she  mentioned 
Christine,  her  ill  temper  increased.  She  showed  her 
teeth. 

"You  get  out  of  here,"  she  said  suddenly.  "I 
did  n't  ask  you  to  come  back.  I  don't  want  you." 

201 


K 


" Good  Heavens,  Grace!  You  always  knew  I  would 
have  to  marry  some  day." 

"  I  was  sick;  I  nearly  died.  I  did  n't  hear  any  re- 
ports of  you  hanging  around  the  hospital  to  learn 
how  I  was  getting  along." 

He  laughed  rather  sheepishly. 

"  I  had  to  be  careful.  You  know  that  as  well  as  I 
do.  I  know  half  the  staff  there.  Besides,  one  of  — " 
He  hesitated  over  his  wife's  name.  "A  girl  I  know 
very  well  was  in  the  training-school.  There  would 
have  been  the  devil  to  pay  if  I  'd  as  much  as  called 
up." 

"You  never  told  me  you  were  going  to  get  mar- 
ried," 

Cornered,  he  slipped  an  arm  around  her.  But  she 
shook  him  off. 

"I  meant  to  tell  you,  honey;  but  you  got  sick. 
Anyhow,  I  —  I  hated  to  tell  you,  honey." 

He  had  furnished  the  flat  for  her.  There  was  a 
comfortable  feeling  of  coming  home  about  going 
there  again.  And,  now  that  the  worst  minute  of 
their  meeting  was  over,  he  was  visibly  happier. 
But  Grace  continued  to  stand  eyeing  him  somberly. 

"  I've  got  something  to  tell  you,"  she  said.  "  Don't 
have  a  fit,  and  don't  laugh.  If  you  do,  I'll  —  I '11 
jump  out  of  the  window.  I  've  got  a  place  in  a  store. 
I'm  going  to  be  straight,  Palmer." 

" Good  for  you!" 

He  meant  it.  She  was  a  nice  girl  and  he  was  fond 
of  her.  The  other  was  a  dog's  life.  And  he  was  not 

202 


unselfish  about  it.  She  could  not  belong  to  him.  He 
did  not  want  her  to  belong  to  any  one  else. 

"One  of  the  nurses  in  the  hospital,  a  Miss  Page, 
has  got  me  something  to  do  at  Linton  and  Hof- 
burg's.  I  am  going  on  for  the  January  white  sale. 
If  I  make  good  they  will  keep  me." 

He  had  put  her  aside  without  a  qualm ;  and  now  he 
met  her  announcement  with  approval.  He  meant  to 
let  her  alone.  They  would  have  a  holiday  together, 
and  then  they  would  say  good-bye.  And  she  had  not 
fooled  him.  She  still  cared.  He  was  getting  off  well, 
all  things  considered.  She  might  have  raised  a  row. 

"Good  work!"  he  said.  "You'll  be  a  lot  happier. 
But  that  is  n't  any  reason  why  we  should  n't  be 
friends,  is  it?  Just  friends;  I  mean  that.  I  would 
like  to  feel  that  I  can  stop  in  now  and  then  and  say 
how  do  you  do." 

"I  promised  Miss  Page." 

"Never  mind  Miss  Page." 

The  mention  of  Sidney's  name  brought  up  in  his 
mind  Christine  as  he  had  left  her  that  morning.  He 
scowled.  Things  were  not  going  well  at  home.  There 
was  something  wrong  with  Christine.  She  used  to 
be  a  good  sport,  but  she  had  never  been  the  same 
since  the  day  of  the  wedding.  He  thought  her  at- 
titude toward  him  was  one  of  suspicion.  It  made 
him  uncomfortable.  But  any  attempt  on  his  part  to 
fathom  it  only  met  with  cold  silence.  That  had  been 
her  attitude  that  morning. 

"I  '11  tell  you  what  we'll  do,"  he  said.  "We  won't 
203 


go  to  any  of  the  old  places.  I  Ve  found  a  new  road- 
house  in  the  country  that 's  respectable  enough  to 
suit  anybody.  We'll  go  out  to  Schwitter's  and  get 
some  dinner.  I  '11  promise  to  get  you  back  early. 
How's  that?" 

In  the  end  she  gave  in.  And  on  the  way  out  he 
lived  up  to  the  letter  of  their  agreement.  The  situa- 
tion exhilarated  him:  Grace  with  her  new  air  of 
virtue,  her  new  aloofness;  his  comfortable  car; 
Johnny  Rosenf eld's  discreet  back  and  alert  ears. 

The  adventure  had  all  the  thrill  of  a  new  conquest 
in  it.  He  treated  the  girl  with  deference,  did  not 
insist  when  she  refused  a  cigarette,  felt  glowingly 
virtuous  and  exultant  at  the  same  time. 

When  the  car  drew  up  before  the  Schwitter  place, 
he  slipped  a  five-dollar  bill  into  Johnny  Rosenf  eld's 
not  over-clean  hand. 

"I  don't  mind  the  ears,"  he  said.  "Just  watch 
your  tongue,  lad."  And  Johnny  stalled  his  engine  in 
sheer  surprise. 

" There's  just  enough  of  the  Jew  in  me,"  said 
Johnny,  "  to  know  how  to  talk  a  lot  and  say  nothing, 
Mr.  Howe." 

He  crawled  stifHy  out  of  the  car  and  prepared  to 
crank  it. 

"  I  '11  just  give  her  the  'once  over'  now  and  then," 
he  said.  "She'll  freeze  solid  if  I  let  her  stand." 

Grace  had  gone  up  the  narrow  path  to  the  house. 
She  had  the  gift  of  looking  well  in  her  clothes,  and 
her  small  hat  with  its  long  quill  and  her  motor-coat 

204 


were  chic  and  becoming.  She  never  overdressed,  as 
Christine  was  inclined  to  do. 

Fortunately  for  Palmer,  Tillie  did  not  see  him.  A 
heavy  German  maid  waited  at  the  table  in  the  din- 
ing-room, while  Tillie  baked  waffles  in  the  kitchen. 

Johnny  Rosenfeld,  going  around  the  side  path  to 
the  kitchen  door  with  visions  of  hot  coffee  and  a 
country  supper  for  his  frozen  stomach,  saw  her 
through  the  window  bending  flushed  over  the  stove, 
and  hesitated.  Then,  without  a  word,  he  tiptoed 
back  to  the  car  again,  and,  crawling  into  thetonneau, 
covered  himself  with  rugs.  In  his  untutored  mind 
were  certain  great  qualities,  and  loyalty  to  his  em- 
ployer was  one.  The  five  dollars  in  his  pocket  had 
nothing  whatever  to  do  with  it. 

At  eighteen  he  had  developed  a  philosophy  of  four 
words.  It  took  the  place  of  the  Golden  Rule,  the 
Ten  Commandments,  and  the  Catechism.  It  was: 
"Mind  your  own  business.'* 

The  discovery  of  Tillie's  hiding-place  interested 
but  did  not  thrill  him.  Tillie  was  his  cousin.  If  she 
wanted  to  do  the  sort  of  thing  she  was  doing,  that 
was  her  affair.  Tillie  and  her  middle-aged  lover, 
Palmer  Howe  and  Grace  —  the  alley  was  not  un- 
familiar with  such  relationships.  It  viewed  them 
with  tolerance  until  they  were  found  out,  when  it 
raised  its  hands. 

True  to  his  promise,  Palmer  wakened  the  sleep- 
ing boy  before  nine  o'clock.  Grace  had  eaten  little 

205 


and  drunk  nothing;  but  Howe  was  slightly  stimu- 
lated. 

"Give  her  the  'once  over,' "  he  told  Johnny,  "and 
then  go  back  and  crawl  into  the  rugs  again.  I'll 
drive  in." 

Grace  sat  beside  him.  Their  progress  was  slow 
and  rough  over  the  country  roads,  but  when  they 
reached  the  State  road  Howe  threw  open  the  throttle. 
He  drove  well.  The  liquor  was  in  his  blood.  He  took 
chances  and  got  away  with  them,  laughing  at  the 
girl's  gasps  of  dismay. 

"Wait  until  I  get  beyond  Simkinsville,"  he  said, 
"and  I'll  let  her  out.  You're  going  to  travel  to- 
night, honey." 

The  girl  sat  beside  him  with  her  eyes  fixed  ahead. 
He  had  been  drinking,  and  the  warmth  of  the  liquor 
was  in  his  voice.  She  was  determined  on  one  thing. 
She  was  going  to  make  him  live  up  to  the  letter  of 
his  promise  to  go  away  at  the  house  door;  and  more 
and  more  she  realized  that  it  would  be  difficult.  His 
mood  was  reckless,  masterful.  Instead  of  laughing 
when  she  drew  back  from  a  proffered  caress,  he 
turned  surly.  Obstinate  lines  that  she  remembered 
appeared  from  his  nostrils  to  the  corners  of  his 
mouth.  She  was  uneasy. 

Finally  she  hit  on  a  plan  to  make  him  stop  some- 
where in  her  neighborhood  and  let  her  get  out  of  the 
car.  She  would  not  come  back  after  that. 

There  was  another  car  going  toward  the  city.  Now 
it  passed  them,  and  as  often  they  passed  it.  It  be- 

206 


came  a  contest  of  wits.  Palmer's  car  lost  on  the  hills, 
but  gained  on  the  long  level  stretches,  which  gleamed 
with  a  coating  of  thin  ice. 

"I  wish  you'd  let  them  get  ahead,  Palmer.  It's 
silly  and  it's  reckless." 

"I  told  you  we'd  travel  to-nigh t." 
He  turned  a  little  glance  at  her.    What  the  deuce 
was  the  matter  with  women,  anyhow?   Were  none 
of  them  cheerful  any  more?    Here  was  Grace  as 
sober  as  Christine.   He  felt  outraged,  defrauded. 

His  light  car  skidded  and  struck  the  big  car 
heavily.  On  a  smooth  road  perhaps  nothing  more 
serious  than  broken  mudguards  would  have  been  the 
result.  But  on  the  ice  the  small  car  slewed  around 
and  slid  over  the  edge  of  the  bank.  At  the  bottom  of 
the  declivity  it  turned  over. 

Grace  was  flung  clear  of  the  wreckage.  Howe 
freed  himself  and  stood  erect,  with  one  arm  hanging 
at  his  side.  There  was  no  sound  at  all  from  the  boy 
under  the  tonneau. 

The  big  car  had  stopped.  Down  the  bank  plunged 
a  heavy,  gorilla-like  figure,  long  arms  pushing  aside 
the  frozen  branches  of  trees.  When  he  reached  the 
car,  O'Hara  found  Grace  sitting  unhurt  on  the 
ground.  In  the  wreck  of  the  car  the  lamps  had  not 
been  extinguished,  and  by  their  light  he  made  out 
Howe,  swaying  dizzily. 
"Anybody  underneath?" 

"The  chauffeur.  He's  dead,  I  think.  He  does  n't 
answer." 

207 


The  other  members  of  O'Hara's  party  had  crawled 
down  the  bank  by  that  time.  With  the  aid  of  a  jack, 
they  got  the  car  up.  Johnny  Rosenfeld  lay  dou- 
bled on  his  face  underneath.  When  he  came  to  and 
opened  his  eyes,  Grace  almost  shrieked  her  relief. 

"I'm  all  right,"  said  Johnny  Rosenfeld.  And, 
when  they  offered  him  whiskey:  "Away  with  the 
fire-water.  I  am  no  drinker.  I  —  I  — "  A  spasm  of 
pain  twisted  his  face.  "I  guess  I'll  get  up. "  With 
his  arms  he  lifted  himself  to  a  sitting  position,  and 
fell  back  again. 

"God!"  he  said.  "  I  can't  move  my  legs." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

BY  Christmas  Day  Sidney  was  back  in  the  hospital, 
a  little  wan,  but  valiantly  determined  to  keep  her 
life  to  its  mark  of  service.  She  had  a  talk  with  K. 
the  night  before  she  left. 

Katie  was  out,  and  Sidney  had  put  the  dining- 
room  in  order.  K.  sat  by  the  table  and  watched  her 
as  she  moved  about  the  room. 

The  past  few  weeks  had  been  very  wonderful  to 
him:  to  help  her  up  and  down  the  stairs,  to  read  to 
her  in  the  evenings  as  she  lay  on  the  couch  in  the 
sewing-room;  later,  as  she  improved,  to  bring  small 
dainties  home  for  her  tray,  and,  having  stood  over 
Katie  while  she  cooked  them,  to  bear  them  in  tri- 
umph to  that  upper  room  —  he  had  not  been  so 
happy  in  years. 

And  now  it  was  over.  He  drew  a  long  breath. 

"I  hope  you  don't  feel  as  if  you  must  stay  on," 
she  said  anxiously.  "Not  that  we  don't  want  you 
—  you  know  better  than  that." 

"There  is  no  place  else  in  the  whole  world  that 
I  want  to  go  to,"  he  said  simply. 

"I  seem,  to  be  always  relying  on  somebody's 
kindness  to  —  to  keep  things  together.  First,  for 
years  and  years,  it  was  Aunt  Harriet;  now  it  is 
you." 

"Don't  you  realize  that,  instead  of  your  being 
209 


grateful  to  me,  it  is  I  who  am  undeniably  grateful 
to  you?  This  is  home  now.   I  have  lived  around  - 
in  different  places  and  in  different  ways.    I  would 
rather  be  here  than  anywhere  else  in  the  world." 

But  he  did  not  look  at  her.  There  was  so  much 
that  was  hopeless  in  his  eyes  that  he  did  not  want 
her  to  see.  She  would  be  quite  capable,  he  told  him- 
self savagely,  of  marrying  him  out  of  sheer  pity  if 
she  ever  guessed.  And  he  was  afraid  —  afraid,  since 
he  wanted  her  so  much  —  that  he  would  be  fool  and 
weakling  enough  to  take  her  even  on  those  terms. 
So  he  looked  away. 

Everything  was  ready  for  her  return  to  the  hos- 
pital. She  had  been  out  that  day  to  put  flowers  on 
the  quiet  grave  where  Anna  lay  with  folded  hands; 
she  had  made  her  round  of  little  visits  on  the  Street ; 
and  now  her  suit-case,  packed,  was  in  the  hall. 

"In  one  way,  it  will  be  a  little  better  for  you  than 
if  Christine  and  Palmer  were  not  in  the  house.  You 
like  Christine,  don't  you?" 

"Very  much." 

"She  likes  you,  K.  She  depends  on  you,  too, 
especially  since  that  night  when  you  took  care  of 
Palmer's  arm  before  we  got  Dr.  Max.  I  often  think, 
K.,  what  a  good  doctor  you  would  have  been.  You 
knew  so  well  what  to  do  for  mother." 

She  broke  off.  She  still  could  not  trust  her  voice 
about  her  mother. 

h  *'  Palmer's  arm  is  going  to  be  quite  straight.  Dr.  Ed 
is  so  proud  of  Max  over  it.    It  was  a  bad  fracture." 

210 


He  had  been  waiting  for  that.  Once  at  least, 
whenever  they  were  together,  she  brought  Max  into 
the  conversation.  She  was  quite  unconscious  of  it. 

"You  and  Max  are  great  friends.  I  knew  you 
would  like  him.  He  is  interesting,  don't  you  think?  " 

"Very,"  said  K. 

To  save  his  life,  he  could  not  put  any  warmth 
into  his  voice.  He  would  be  fair.  It  was  not  in 
human  nature  to  expect  more  of  him. 

"Those  long  talks  you  have,  shut  in  your  room 
—  what  in  the  world  do  you  talk  about?  Politics?" 

"Occasionally." 

She  was  a  little  jealous  of  those  evenings,  when  she 
sat  alone,  or  when  Harriet,  sitting  with  her,  made 
sketches  under  the  lamp  to  the  accompaniment 
of  a  steady  hum  of  masculine  voices  from  across 
the  hall.  Not  that  she  was  ignored,  of  course.  Max 
came  in  always,  before  he  went,  and,  leaning  over 
the  back  of  a  chair,  would  inform  her  of  the  absolute 
blankness  of  life  in  the  hospital  without  her. 

"  I  go  every  day  because  I  must,"  he  would  assure 
her  gayly;  "but,  I  tell  you,  the  snap  is  gone  out  of 
it.  When  there  was  a  chance  that  every  cap  was 
your  cap,  the  mere  progress  along  a  corridor  became 
thrilling."  He  had  a  foreign  trick  of  throwing  out 
his  hands,  with  a  little  shrug  of  the  shoulders.  "  Cui 
bono?"  he  said  —  which,  being  translated,  means: 
"What  the  devil's  the  use!" 

And  K.  would  stand  in  the  doorway,  quietly 
smoking,  or  go  back  to  his  room  and  lock  away  in 

211 


his  trunk  the  great  German  books  on  surgery  with 
which  he  and  Max  had  been  working  out  a  case. 

So  K.  sat  by  the  dining-room  table  and  listened 
to  her  talk  of  Max  that  last  evening  together. 

"I  told  Mrs.  Rosenfeld  to-day  not  to  be  too 
much  discouraged  about  Johnny.  I  had  seen  Dr. 
Max  do  such  wonderful  things.  Now  that  you  are 
such  friends,"  —  she  eyed  him  wistfully,  —  "per- 
haps some  day  you  will  come  to  one  of  his  opera- 
tions. Even  if  you  did  n't  understand  exactly,  I 
know  it  would  thrill  you.  And  —  I'd  like  you  to  see 
me  in  my  uniform,  K.  You  never  have." 

She  grew  a  little  sad  as  the  evening  went  on.  She 
was  going  to  miss  K.  very  much.  While  she  was  ill 
she  had  watched  the  clock  for  the  time  to  listen  for 
him.  She  knew  the  way  he  slammed  the  front  door. 
Palmer  never  slammed  the  door.  She  knew  too  that, 
just  after  a  bang  that  threatened  the  very  glass  in 
the  transom,  K.  would  come  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs 
and  call :  — 

"Ahoy,  there!" 

"Aye,  aye,"  she  would  answer  —  which  was,  he 
assured  her,  the  proper  response. 

Whether  he  came  up  the  stairs  at  once  or  took  his 
way  back  to  Katie  had  depended  on  whether  his 
tribute  for  the  day  was  fruit  or  sweetbreads. 

Now  that  was  all  over.  They  were  such  good 
friends.  He  would  miss  her,  too ;  but  he  would  have 
Harriet  and  Christine  and  —  Max.  Back  in  a  circle 
to  Max,  of  course. 

212 


She  insisted,  that  last  evening,  on  sitting  up  with 
him  until  midnight  ushered  in  Christmas  Day. 
Christine  and  Palmer  were  out;  Harriet,  having 
presented  Sidney  with  a  blouse  that  had  been  left 
over  in  the  shop  from  the  autumn's  business,  had 
yawned  herself  to  bed. 

When  the  bells  announced  midnight,  Sidney 
roused  with  a  start.  She  realized  that  for  some  time 
neither  of  them  had  spoken,  and  that  K.'s  eyes  were 
fixed  on  her.  The  little  clock  on  the  shelf  took  up 
the  burden  of  the  churches,  and  struck  the  hour  in 
quick  staccato  notes. 

Sidney  rose  and  went  over  to  K.,  her  black  dress 
in  soft  folds  about  her. 

"He  is  born,  K." 

"  He  is  born,  dear." 

She  stooped  and  kissed  his  cheek  lightly. 

Christmas  Day  dawned  thick  and  white.  Sidney 
left  the  little  house  at  six,  with  the  street  light 
still  burning  through  a  mist  of  falling  snow. 

The  hospital  wards  and  corridors  were  still 
lighted  when  she  went  on  duty  at  seven  o'clock. 
She  had  been  assigned  to  the  men's  surgical  ward, 
and  went  there  at  once.  She  had  not  seen  Carlotta 
Harrison  since  her  mother's  death ;  but  she  found  her 
on  duty  in  the  surgical  ward.  For  the  second  time  in 
four  months,  the  two  girls  were  working  side  by  side. 

Sidney's  recollection  of  her  previous  service  under 
Carlotta  made  her  nervous.  But  the  older  girl  greeted 
her  pleasantly. 

213 


1 '  We  were  all  sorry  to  hear  of  your  trouble, ' '  she 
said.  "  I  hope  we  shall  get  on  nicely." 

Sidney  surveyed  the  ward,  full  to  overflowing. 
At  the  far  end  two  cots  had  been  placed. 

"The  ward  is  heavy,  is  n't  it?" 

"Very.  I've  been  almost  mad  at  dressing  hour. 
There  are  three  of  us  —  you,  myself,  and  a  proba- 
tioner." 

The  first  light  of  the  Christmas  morning  was 
coming  through  the  windows.  Carlotta  put  out  the 
lights  and  turned  in  a  business-like  way  to  her 
records. 

"The  probationer's  name  is  Wardwell,"  she  said. 
11  Perhaps  you  'd  better  help  her  with  the  breakfasts. 
If  there's  any  way  to  make  a  mistake,  she  makes 
it." 

It  was  after  eight  when  Sidney  found  Johnny 
Rosenfeld. 

"You  here  in  the  ward,  Johnny!"  she  said. 

Suffering  had  refined  the  boy's  features.  His  dark, 
heavily  fringed  eyes  looked  at  her  from  a  pale  face. 
But  he  smiled  up  at  her  cheerfully. 

"  I  was  in  a  private  room;  but  it  cost  thirty  plunks 
a  week,  so  I  moved.  Why  pay  rent?" 

Sidney  had  not  seen  him  since  his  accident.  She 
had  wished  to  go,  but  K.  had  urged  against  it.  She 
was  not  strong,  and  she  had  already  suffered  much. 
And  now  the  work  of  the  ward  pressed  hard.  She 
had  only  a  moment.  She  stood  beside  him  and 
stroked  his  hand. 

214 


"I'm  sorry,  Johnny." 

He  pretended  to  think  that  her  sympathy  was  for 
his  fall  from  the  estate  of  a  private  patient  to  the 
free  ward. 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right,  Miss  Sidney,"  he  said.  "Mr. 
Howe  is  paying  six  dollars  a  week  for  me.  The  dif- 
ference between  me  and  the  other  fellows  around  here 
is  that  I  get  a  napkin  on  my  tray  and  they  don't." 

Before  his  determined  cheerfulness  Sidney  choked. 

"Six  dollais  a  week  for  a  napkin  is  going  some. 
I  wish  you  'd  tell  Mr.  Howe  to  give  ma  the  six  dol- 
lars. She'll  be  needing  it.  I  'm  no  bloated  aristocrat; 
I  don't  have  to  have  a  napkin." 

"Have  they  told  you  what  the  trouble  is?" 

"Back's  broke.  But  don't  let  that  worry  you. 
Dr.  Max  Wilson  is  going  to  operate  on  me.  I  '11  be 
doing  the  tango  yet." 

Sidney's  eyes  shone.  Of  course,  Max  could  do 
it.  What  a  thing  it  was  to  be  able  to  take  this  life-in- 
death  of  Johnny  Rosenfeld's  and  make  it  life  again! 

All  sorts  of  men  made  up  Sidney's  world:  the 
derelicts  who  wandered  through  the  ward  in  flapping 
slippers,  listlessly  carrying  trays ;  the  unshaven  men 
in  the  beds,  looking  forward  to  another  day  of  bore- 
dom, if  not  of  pain;  Palmer  Howe  with  his  broken 
arm;  K.,  tender  and  strong,  but  filling  no  especial 
place  in  the  world.  Towering  over  them  all  was  the 
younger  Wilson.  He  meant  for  her,  that  Christmas 
morning,  all  that  the  other  men  were  not  —  to  their 
weakness  strength,  courage,  daring,  power. 

215 


Johnny  Rosenfeld  lay  back  on  the  pillows  and 
watched  her  face. 

"When  I  was  a  kid,'*  he  said,  "and  ran  along  the 
Street,  calling  Dr.  Max  a  dude,  I  never  thought  I  'd 
lie  here  watching  that  door  to  see  him  come  in.  You 
have  had  trouble,  too.  Ain't  it  the  hell  of  a  world, 
anyhow?  It  ain't  much  of  a  Christmas  to  you, 
either." 

Sidney  fed  him  his  morning  beef  tea,  and,  be- 
cause her  eyes  filled  up  with  tears  now  and  then 
at  his  helplessness,  she  was  not  so  skillful  as  she 
might  have  been.  When  one  spoonful  had  gone 
down  his  neck,  he  smiled  up  at  her  whimsically. 

"Run  for  your  life.   The  dam's  burst!"  he  said. 

As  much  as  was  possible,  the  hospital  rested  on 
that  Christmas  Day.  The  internes  went  about  in 
fresh  white  ducks  with  sprays  of  mistletoe  in  their 
buttonholes,  doing  few  dressings.  Over  the  upper 
floors,  where  the  kitchens  were  located,  spread 
toward  noon  the  insidious  odor  of  roasting  turkeys. 
Every  ward  had  its  vase  of  holly.  In  the  afternoon, 
services  were  held  in  the  chapel  downstairs. 

Wheel-chairs  made  their  slow  progress  along  cor- 
ridors and  down  elevators.  Convalescents  who  were 
able  to  walk  flapped  along  in  carpet  slippers. 

Gradually  the  chapel  filled  up.  Outside  the  wide 
doors  of  the  corridor  the  wheel-chairs  were  arranged 
in  a  semicircle.  Behind  them,  dressed  for  the  occa- 
sion, were  the  elevator-men,  the  orderlies,  and  Big 
John,  who  drove  the  ambulance. 

216 


On  one  side  of  the  aisle,  near  the  front,  sat  the 
nurses  in  rows,  in  crisp  caps  and  fresh  uniforms.  On 
the  other  side  had  been  reserved  a  place  for  the  staff. 
The  internes  stood  back  against  the  wall,  ready  to 
run  out  between  rejoicings,  as  it  were  —  for  a  cigar- 
1  ette  or  an  ambulance  call,  as  the  case  might  be. 

Over  everything  brooded  the  after-dinner  peace 
of  Christmas  afternoon. 

The  nurses  sang,  and  Sidney  sang  with  them,  her 
fresh  young  voice  rising  above  the  rest.  Yellow  win- 
ter sunlight  came  through  the  stained-glass  windows 
and  shone  on  her  lovely  flushed  face,  her  smooth 
kerchief,  her  cap,  always  just  a  little  awry. 

Dr.  Max,  lounging  against  the  wall,  across  the 
chapel,  found  his  eyes  straying  toward  her  con- 
stantly. How  she  stood  out  from  the  others !  What 
a  zest  for  living  and  for  happiness  she  had ! 

The  Episcopal  clergyman  read  the  Epistle:  — 

"Thou  hast  loved  righteousness,  and  hated  ini- 
quity; therefore  God,  even  thy  God,  hath  anointed 
thee  with  the  oil  of  gladness  above  thy  fellows." 

That  was  Sidney.  She  was  good,  and  she  had 
been  anointed  with  the  oil  of  gladness.  And  he  — 

His  brother  was  singing.  His  deep  bass  voice,  not 
always  true,  boomed  out  above  the  sound  of  the 
small  organ.  Ed  had  been  a  good  brother  to  him; 
he  had  been  a  good  son. 

Max's  vagrant  mind  wandered  away  from  the 
service  to  the  picture  of  his  mother  over  his  brother's 
littered  desk,  to  the  Street,  to  K.,  to  the  girl  who  had 

217 


refused  to  marry  him  because  she  did  not  trust  him, 
to  Carlotta  last  of  all.  He  turned  a  little  and  ran  his 
eyes  along  the  line  of  nurses. 

Ah,  there  she  was.  As  if  she  were  conscious  of  his 
scrutiny,  she  lifted  her  head  and  glanced  toward  him. 
Swift  color  flooded  her  face. 

The  nurses  sang:  — 

"O  holy  Child  of  Bethlehem! 

Descend  to  us,  we  pray; 
Cast  out  our  sin,  and  enter  in, 
Be  born  in  us  to-day." 

The  wheel-chairs  and  convalescents  quavered  the 
familiar  words.  Dr.  Ed's  heavy  throat  shook  with 
earnestness. 

The  Head,  sitting  a  little  apart  with  her  hands 
folded  in  her  lap  and  weary  with  the  suffering  of  the 
world,  closed  her  eyes  and  listened. 

The  Christmas  morning  had  brought  Sidney  half 
a  dozen  gifts.  K.  sent  her  a  silver  thermometer  case 
with  her  monogram,  Christine  a  toilet  mirror.  But 
the  gift  of  gifts,  over  which  Sidney's  eyes  had 
glowed,  was  a  great  box  of  roses  marked  in  Dr. 
Max's  copper-plate  writing,  "From  a  neighbor." 

Tucked  in  the  soft  folds  of  her  kerchief  was  one 
of  the  roses  that  afternoon. 

Services  over,  the  nurses  filed  out.  Max  was  wait- 
ing for  Sidney  in  the  corridor. 

"Merry  Christmas!"  he  said,  and  held  out  his 
hand. 

218 


"Merry  Christmas!"  she  said.  "You  see!"  — 
she  glanced  down  to  the  rose  she  wore.  "The  others 
make  the  most  splendid  bit  of  color  in  the  ward." 

"But  they  were  for  you!" 

"They  are  not  any  the  less  mine  because  I  am 
letting  other  people  have  a  chance  to  enjoy  them." 

Under  all  his  gayety  he  was  curiously  diffident 
with  her.  All  the  pretty  speeches  he  would  have 
made  to  Carlotta  under  the  circumstances  died 
before  her  frank  glance. 

There  were  many  things  he  wanted  to  say  to  her. 
He  wanted  to  tell  her  that  he  was  sorry  her  mother 
had  died;  that  the  Street  was  empty  without  her; 
that  he  looked  forward  to  these  daily  meetings  with 
her  as  a  holy  man  to  his  hour  before  his  saint.  What 
he  really  said  was  to  inquire  politely  whether  she 
had  had  her  Christmas  dinner. 

Sidney  eyed  him,  half  amused,  half  hurt. 

"What  have  I  done,  Max?  Is  it  bad  for  disci- 
pline for  us  to  be  good  friends?" 

"Damn  discipline!"  said  the  pride  of  the  staff. 

Carlotta  was  watching  them  from  the  chapel. 
Something  in  her  eyes  roused  the  devil  of  mischief 
that  always  slumbered  in  him. 

"My  car's  been  stalled  in  a  snowdrift  downtown 
since  early  this  morning,  and  I  have  Ed's  Peggy  in 
a  sleigh.  Put  on  your  things  and  come  for  a  ride." 

He  hoped  Carlotta  could  hear  what  he  said;  to 
be  certain  of  it,  he  maliciously  raised  his  voice  a 
trifle. 

219 


"  Just  a  little  run,"  he  urged.  "  Put  on  your  warm- 
est things." 

Sidney  protested.  She  was  to  be  free  that  after- 
noon  until  six  o'clock;  but  she  had  promised  to  go 
home. 

"K.  is  alone." 

"K.  can  sit  with  Christine.  Ten  to  one,  he's  with 
her  now." 

The  temptation  was  very  strong.  She  had  been 
working  hard  all  day.  The  heavy  odor  of  the  hos- 
pital, mingled  with  the  scent  of  pine  and  evergreen 
in  the  chapel,  made  her  dizzy.  The  fresh  outdoors 
called  her.  And,  besides,  if  K.  were  with  Christine  — 

"  It's  forbidden,  is  n't  it?" 

"  I  believe  it  is."    He  smiled  at  her. 

"And  yet,  you  continue  to  tempt  me  and  expect 
me  to  yield!" 

"One  of  the  most  delightful  things  about  tempta- 
tion is  yielding  now  and  then." 

After  all,  the  situation  seemed  absurd.  Here  was 
her  old  friend  and  neighbor  asking  to  take  her  out 
for  a  daylight  ride.  The  swift  rebellion  of  youth 
against  authority  surged  up  in  Sidney. 

"Very  well;  I'll  go." 

Carlotta  had  gone  by  that  time  —  gone  with  hate 
in  her  heart  and  black  despair.  She  knew  very  well 
what  the  issue  would  be.  Sidney  would  drive  with 
him,  and  he  would  tell  her  how  lovely  she  looked  with 
the  air  on  her  face  and  the  snow  about  her.  The 
jerky  motion  of  the  little  sleigh  would  throw  them 

220 


close  together.  How  well  she  knew  it  all !  He  would 
touch  Sidney's  hand  daringly  and  smile  in  her  eyes. 
That  was  his  method:  to  play  at  love-making  like 
an  audacious  boy,  until  quite  suddenly  the  cloak 
dropped  and  the  danger  was  there. 

The  Christmas  excitement  had  not  died  out  in 
the  ward  when  Carlotta  went  back  to  it.  On  each 
bedside  table  was  an  orange,  and  beside  it  a  pair  of 
woolen  gloves  and  a  folded  white  handkerchief. 
There  were  sprays  of  holly  scattered  about,  too,  and 
the  after-dinner  content  of  roast  turkey  and  ice- 
cream. 

The  lame  girl  who  played  the  violin  limped  down 
the  corridor  into  the  ward.  She  was  greeted  with 
silence,  that  truest  tribute,  and  with  the  instant 
composing  of  the  restless  ward  to  peace. 

She  was  pretty  in  a  young,  pathetic  way,  and 
because  to  her  Christmas  was  a  festival  and  meant 
hope  and  the  promise  of  the  young  Lord,  she  played 
cheerful  things. 

The  ward  sat  up,  remembered  that  it  was  not  the 
Sabbath,  smiled  across  from  bed  to  bed. 

The  probationer,  whose  name  was  Ward  well,  was 
a  tall,  lean  girl  with  a  long,  pointed  nose.  She  kept 
up  a  running  accompaniment  of  small  talk  to  the 
music. 

"Last  Christmas,"  she  said  plaintively,  "  we  went 
out  into  the  country  in  a  hay-wagon  and  had  a 
real  time.  I  don't  know  what  I  am  here  for,  any- 
how. I  am  a  fool." 

221 


"Undoubtedly,"  said  Carlotta. 

"Turkey  and  goose,  mince  pie  and  pumpkin  pie, 
four  kinds  of  cake;  that's  the  sort  of  spread  we  have 
up  in  our  part  of  the  world.  When  I  think  of  what 
I  sat  down  to  to-day  — !" 

She  had  a  profound  respect  for  Carlotta,  and  her 
motto  in  the  hospital  differed  from  Sidney's  in  that 
it  was  to  placate  her  superiors,  while  Sidney's  had 
been  to  care  for  her  patients. 

Seeing  Carlotta  bored,  she  ventured  a  little  gossip. 
She  had  idly  glued  the  label  of  a  medicine  bottle  on 
the  back  of  her  hand,  and  was  scratching  a  skull 
and  cross-bones  on  it. 

"I  wonder  if  you  have  noticed  something,"  she 
said,  eyes  on  the  label. 

"I  have  noticed  that  the  three-o'clock  medicines 
are  not  given,"  said  Carlotta  sharply;  and  Miss 
Ward  well,  still  labeled  and  adorned,  made  the  rounds 
of  the  ward. 

When  she  came  back  she  was  sulky. 

"  I'm  no  gossip,"  she  said,  putting  the  tray  on  the 
table.  "If  you  won't  see,  you  won't.  That  Rosen- 
feld  boy  is  crying." 

As  it  was  not  required  that  tears  be  recorded  on 
the  record,  Carlotta  paid  no  attention  to  this. 

"What  won't  I  see?" 

It  required  a  little  urging  now.  Miss  Ward  well 
swelled  with  importance  and  let  her  superior  ask 
her  twice.  Then:  — 

"Dr.  Wilson's  crazy  about  Miss  Page." 
222 


A  hand  seemed  to  catch  Carlotta's  heart  and 
hold  it. 

"They 're  old  friends." 

"  Piffle!  Being  an  old  friend  doesn't  make  you  look 
at  a  girl  as  if  you  wanted  to  take  a  bite  out  of  her. 
Mark  my  word,  Miss  Harrison,  she'll  never  finish 
her  training;  she'll  marry  him.  I  wish,"  concluded 
the  probationer  plaintively,  "that  some  good-look- 
ing fellow  like  that  would  take  a  fancy  to  me.  I  'd  do 
him  credit.  I  am  as  ugly  as  a  mud  fence,  but  I  Ve 
got  style." 

She  was  right,  probably.  She  was  long  and  sinu- 
ous, but  she  wore  her  lanky,  ill-fitting  clothes  with 
a  certain  distinction.  Harriet  Kennedy  would  have 
dressed  her  in  jade  green  to  match  her  eyes,  and  with 
long  jade  earrings,  and  made  her  a  fashion. 

Carlotta's  lips  were  dry.  The  violinist  had  seen 
the  tears  on  Johnny  Rosenfeld's  white  cheeks,  and 
had  rushed  into  rollicking,  joyous  music.  The  ward 
echoed  with  it.  "I'm  twenty-one  and  she's  eight- 
een," hummed  the  ward  under  its  breath.  Miss 
Ward  well's  thin  body  swayed. 

"Lord,  how  I'd  like  to  dance!  If  I  ever  get  out 
of  this  charnel-house!" 

The  medicine- tray  lay  at  Carlotta's  elbow ;  beside 
it  the  box  of  labels.  This  crude  girl  was  right  — 
right.  Carlotta  knew  it  down  to  the  depths  of  her 
tortured  brain.  As  inevitably  as  the  night  followed 
the  day,  she  was  losing  her  game.  She  had  lost 
already,  unless  — 

223 


If  she  could  get  Sidney  out  of  the  hospital,  it 
would  simplify  things.  She  surmised  shrewdly  that 
on  the  Street  their  interests  were  wide  apart.  It 
was  here  that  they  met  on  common  ground. 

The  lame  violin-player  limped  out  of  the  ward; 
the  shadows  of  the  early  winter  twilight  settled 
down.  At  five  o'clock  Carlotta  sent  Miss  Ward  well 
to  first  supper,  to  the  surprise  of  that  seldom  sur- 
prised person.  The  ward  lay  still  or  shuffled  about 
quietly.  Christmas  was  over,  and  there  were  no 
evening  papers  to  look  forward  to. 

Carlotta  gave  the  five-o'clock  medicines.  Then 
she  sat  down  at  the  table  near  the  door,  with  the 
tray  in  front  of  her.  There  are  certain  thoughts 
that  are  at  first  functions  of  the  brain ;  after  a  long 
time  the  spinal  cord  takes  them  up  and  converts 
them  into  acts  almost  automatically.  Perhaps  be- 
cause for  the  last  month  she  had  done  the  thing  so 
often  in  her  mind,  its  actual  performance  was  almost 
without  conscious  thought. 

Carlotta  took  a  bottle  from  her  medicine  cup- 
board, and,  writing  a  new  label  for  it,  pasted  it 
over  the  old  one.  Then  she  exchanged  it  for  one  of 
the  same  size  on  the  medicine  tray. 

In  the  dining-room,  at  the  probationers'  table, 
Miss  Wardwell  was  talking. 

" Believe  me,"  she  said,  "me  for  the  country  and 
the  simple  life  after  this.  They  think  I  'm  only  a 
probationer  and  don't  see  anything,  but  I've  got 
eyes  in  my  head.  Harrison  is  stark  crazy  over  Dr. 

224 


Wilson,  and  she  thinks  I  don't  see  it.  But  never 
mind ;  I  paid  her  up  to-day  for  a  few  of  the  jolts  she 
has  given  me." 

Throughout  the  dining-room  busy  and  competent 
young  women  came  and  ate,  hastily  or  leisurely  as 
their  opportunity  was,  and  went  on  their  way  again. 
In  their  hands  they  held  the  keys,  not  always  of  life 
and  death  perhaps,  but  of  ease  from  pain,  of  tender- 
ness, of  smooth  pillows,  and  cups  of  water  to  thirsty 
lips.  In  their  eyes,  as  in  Sidney's,  burned  the  light 
of  service. 

But  here  and  there  one  found  women,  likeCarlotta 
and  Miss  Ward  well,  who  had  mistaken  their  voca- 
tion, who  railed  against  the  monotony  of  the  life, 
its  limitations,  its  endless  sacrifices.  They  showed 
it  in  their  eyes. 

Fifty  or  so  against  two  —  fifty  who  looked  out  on 
the  world  with  the  fearless  glance  of  those  who  have 
seen  life  to  its  depths,  and,  with  the  broad  under- 
standing of  actual  contact,  still  found  it  good.  Fifty 
who  were  learning  or  had  learned  not  to  draw  aside 
their  clean  starched  skirts  from  the  drab  of  the 
streets.  And  the  fifty,  who  found  the  very  scum  of 
the  gutters  not  too  filthy  for  tenderness  and  care, 
let  Carlotta  and,  in  lesser  measure,  the  new  proba- 
tioner alone.  They  could  not  have  voiced  their  rea- 
sons. 

The  supper-room  was  filled  with  their  soft  voices, 
the  rustle  of  their  skirts,  the  gleam  of  their  stiff 
white  caps. 

225 


When  Carlotta  came  in,  she  greeted  none  of  them. 
They  did  not  like  her,  and  she  knew  it. 

Before  her,  instead  of  the  tidy  supper- table,  she 
was  seeing  the  medicine-tray  as  she  had  left  it. 

"I  guess  I've  fixed  her,"  she  said  to  herself. 

Her  very  soul  was  sick  with  fear  of  what  she  had 
done. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

K.  SAW  Sidney  for  only  a  moment  on  Christmas 
Day.  This  was  when  the  gay  little  sleigh  had 
stopped  in  front  of  the  house. 

Sidney  had  hurried  radiantly  in  for  a  moment. 
Christine's  parlor  was  gay  with  firelight  and  noisy 
with  chatter  and  with  the  clatter  of  her  tea-cups. 

K.,  lounging  indolently  in  front  of  the  fire,  had 
turned  to  see  Sidney  in  the  doorway,  and  leaped  to 
his  feet. 

"  I  can't  come  in,"  she  cried.  "  I  am  only  here  for 
a  moment.  I  am  out  sleigh-riding  with  Dr.  Wilson. 
It's  perfectly  delightful." 

"Ask  him  in  for  a  cup  of  tea,"  Christine  called 
out.  " Here's  Aunt  Harriet  and  mother  and  even 
Palmer!" 

Christine  had  aged  during  the  last  weeks,  but  she 
was  putting  up  a  brave  front. 

"I'll  ask  him." 

Sidney  ran  to  the  front  door  and  called:  "Will 
you  come  in  for  a  cup  of  tea?" 

"Tea!  Good  Heavens,  no.    Hurry." 

As  Sidney  turned  back  into  the  house,  she  met 
Palmer.  He  had  come  out  in  the  hall,  and  had  closed 
the  door  into  the  parlor  behind  him.  His  arm  was 
still  in  splints,  and  swung  suspended  in  a  gay  silk 
sling. 

227 


The  sound  of  laughter  came  through  the  door 
faintly. 

"How  is  he  to-day?"  He  meant  Johnny,  of 
course.  The  boy's  face  was  always  with  him. 

"  Better  in  some  ways,  but  of  course  — " 

"When  are  they  going  to  operate?" 

"When  he  is  a  little  stronger.  Why  don't  you 
come  in  to  see  him?" 

"  I  can't.  That's  the  truth.  I  can't  face  the  poor 
youngster." 

"He  does  n't  seem  to  blame  you;  he  says  it's  all 
in  the  game." 

"Sidney,  does  Christine  know  that  I  was  not 
alone  that  night?" 

"If  she  guesses,  it  is  not  because  of  anything  the 
boy  has  said.  He  has  told  nothing." 

Out  of  the  firelight,  away  from  the  chatter  and  the 
laughter,  Palmer's  face  showed  worn  and  haggard. 
He  put  his  free  hand  on  Sidney's  shoulder. 

"  I  was  thinking  that  perhaps  if  I  went  away  — " 

"That  would  be  cowardly,  would  n't  it?" 

"If  Christine  would  only  say  something  and  get 
it  over  with!  She  does  n't  sulk;  I  think  she's  really 
trying  to  be  kind.  But  she  hates  me,  Sidney.  She 
turns  pale  every  time  I  touch  her  hand." 

All  the  light  had  died  out  of  Sidney's  face.  Life 
was  terrible,  after  all  —  overwhelming.  One  did 
wrong  things,  and  other  people  suffered ;  or  one  was 
good,  as  her  mother  had  been,  and  was  left  lonely, 
a  widow,  or  like  Aunt  Harriet.  Life  was  a  sham, 

228 


too.  Things  were  so  different  from  what  they  seemed 
to  be:  Christine  beyond  the  door,  pouring  tea  and 
laughing,  with  her  heart  in  ashes ;  Palmer  beside  her, 
faultlessly  dressed  and  wretched.  The  only  one 
she  thought  really  contented  was  K.  He  seemed  to 
move  so  calmly  in  his  little  orbit.  He  was  always 
so  steady,  so  balanced.  If  life  held  no  heights  for 
him,  at  least  it  held  no  depths. 

So  Sidney  thought,  in  her  ignorance! 

' '  There 's  only  one  thing,  Palmer, ' '  she  said  gravely. 
''Johnny  Rosenfeld  is  going  to  have  his  chance. 
If  anybody  in  the  world  can  save  him,  Max  Wilson 
can." 

The  light  of  that  speech  was  in  her  eyes  when  she 
went  out  to  the  sleigh  again.  K.  followed  her  out 
and  tucked  the  robes  in  carefully  about  her. 

"Warm  enough?" 

"All  right,  thank  you." 

"  Don't  go  too  far.  Is  there  any  chance  of  having 
you  home  for  supper?" 

"  I  think  not.    I  am  to  go  on  duty  at  six  again." 

If  there  was  a  shadow  in  K.'s  eyes,  she  did  not  see 
it.  He  waved  them  off  smilingly  from  the  pavement, 
and  went  rather  heavily  back  into  the  house. 

"Just  how  many  men  are  in  love  with  you, 
Sidney?"  asked  Max,  as  Peggy  started  up  the 
Street, 

"No  one  that  I  know  of,  unless — " 

"Exactly.   Unless—" 

"What  I  meant,"  she  said  with  dignity,  "is  that 
229 


unless  one  counts  very  young  men,  and  that  is  n't 
really  love." 

"We'll  leave  out  Joe  Drummond  and  my  self  - 
for,  of  course,  I  am  very  young.  Who  is  in  love  with 
you  besides  Le  Moyne?   Any  of  the  internes  at  the 
hospital?" 

" Me!   Le  Moyne  is  not  in  love  with  me." 

There  was  such  sincerity  in  her  voice  that  Wilson 
was  relieved. 

K.,  older  than  himself  and  more  grave,  had  always 
had  an  odd  attraction  for  women.  He  had  been 
frankly  bored  by  them,  but  the  fact  had  remained. 
And  Max  more  than  suspected  that  now,  at  last, 
he  had  been  caught. 

"  Don't  you  really  mean  that  you  are  in  love  with 
Le  Moyne?" 

"Please  don't  be  absurd.  I  am  not  in  love  with 
anybody;  I  have  n't  time  to  be  in  love.  I  have  my 
profession  now." 

"Bah!   A  woman's  real  profession  is  love." 

Sidney  differed  from  this  hotly.  So  warm  did 
the  argument  become  that  they  passed  without 
seeing  a  middle-aged  gentleman,  short  and  rather 
heavy  set,  struggling  through  a  snowdrift  on  foot, 
and  carrying  in  his  hand  a  dilapidated  leather 
bag. 

Dr.  Ed  hailed  them.  But  the  cutter  slipped  by  and 
left  him  knee-deep,  looking  ruefully  after  them. 

"The  young  scamp!"  he  said.  "So  that's  where 
Peggy  is!" 

230 


Nevertheless,  there  was  no  anger  in  Dr.  Ed's 
mind,  only  a  vague  and  inarticulate  regret.  These 
things  that  came  so  easily  to  Max,  the  affection  of 
women,  gay  little  irresponsibilities  like  the  stealing 
of  Peggy  and  the  sleigh,  had  never  been  his.  If  there 
was  any  faint  resentment,  it  was  at  himself.  He  had 
raised  the  boy  wrong  —  he  had  taught  him  to  be 
selfish.  Holding  the  bag  high  out  of  the  drifts,  he 
made  his  slow  progress  up  the  Street. 

At  something  after  two  o'clock  that  night,  K.  put 
down  his  pipe  and  listened.  He  had  not  been  able 
to  sleep  since  midnight.  In  his  dressing-gown  he  had 
sat  by  the  small  fire,  thinking.  The  content  of  his 
first  few  months  on  the  Street  was  rapidly  giving 
way  to  unrest.  He  who  had  meant  to  cut  himself  off 
from  life  found  himself  again  in  close  touch  with  it; 
his  eddy  was  deep  with  it. 

For  the  first  time,  he  had  begun  to  question  the 
wisdom  of  what  he  had  done.  Had  it  been  cowardice, 
after  all?  It  had  taken  courage,  God  knew,  to  give 
up  everything  and  come  away.  In  a  way,  it  would 
have  taken  more  courage  to  have  stayed.  Had  he 
been  right  or  wrong? 

And  there  was  a  new  element.  He  had  thought, 
at  first,  that  he  could  fight  down  this  love  for  Sidney. 
But  it  was  increasingly  hard.  The  innocent  touch 
of  her  hand  on  his  arm,  the  moment  when  he  had 
held  her  in  his  arms  after  her  mother's  death,  the 
thousand  small  contacts  of  her  returns  to  the  little 

231 


house  —  all  these  set  his  blood  on  fire.    And  it  was 
fighting  blood. 

Under  his  quiet  exterior  K.  fought  many  conflicts 
those  winter  days  —  over  his  desk  and  ledger  at  the 
office,  in  his  room  alone,  with  Harriet  planning  fresh 
triumphs  beyond  the  partition,  even  by  Christine's 
fire,  with  Christine  just  across,  sitting  in  silence  and 
watching  his  grave  profile  and  steady  eyes. 

He  had  a  little  picture  of  Sidney  —  a  snap-shot 
that  he  had  taken  himself.  It  showed  Sidney  minus 
a  hand,  which  had  been  out  of  range  when  the  camera 
had  been  snapped,  and  standing  on  a  steep  declivity 
which  would  have  been  quite  a  level  had  he  held  the 
camera  straight.  Nevertheless  it  was  Sidney,  her 
hair  blowing  about  her,  eyes  looking  out,  tender  lips 
smiling.  When  she  was  not  at  home,  it  sat  on  K.'s 
dresser,  propped  against  his  collar-box.  When  she 
was  in  the  house,  it  lay  under  the  pin-cushion. 

Two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  then,  and  K.  in  his 
dressing-gown,  with  the  picture  propped,  not  against 
the  collar-box,  but  against  his  lamp,  where  he  could 
see  it. 

He  sat  forward  in  his  chair,  his  hands  folded 
around  his  knee,  and  looked  at  it.  He  was  trying  to 
picture  the  Sidney  of  the  photograph  in  his  old  life— 
trying  to  find  a  place  for  her.  But  it  was  difficult. 
There  had  been  few  women  in  his  old  life.  His  mo- 
ther had  died  many  years  before.  There  had  been 
women  who  had  cared  for  him,  but  he  put  them  im- 
patiently out  of  his  mind. 

232 


Then  the  bell  rang. 

Christine  was  moving  about  below.  He  could  hear 
her  quick  steps.  Almost  before  he  had  heaved  his 
long  legs  out  of  the  chair,  she  was  tapping  at  his  door 
outside. 

"It's  Mrs.  Rosenfeld.  She  says  she  wants  to  see 
you." 

He  went  down  the  stairs.  Mrs.  Rosenfeld  was 
standing  in  the  lower  hall,  a  shawl  about  her 
shoulders.  Her  face  was  white  and  drawn  above 
it. 

"I  Ve  had  word  to  go  to  the  hospital,"  she  said. 
"  I  thought  maybe  you  'd  go  with  me.  It  seems  as  if 
I  can't  stand  it  alone.  Oh,  Johnny,  Johnny!" 

"Where's  Palmer?"  K.  demanded  of  Christine. 

"He 'snot  in  yet." 

"Are  you  afraid  to  stay  in  the  house  alone?" 

"No;  please  go." 

He  ran  up  the  staircase  to  his  room  and  flung  on 
some  clothing.  In  the  lower  hall,  Mrs.  Rosenf eld's 
sobs  had  become  low  moans.  Christine  stood  help- 
lessly over  her. 

"  I  am  terribly  sorry,"  she  said  —  "terribly  sorry! 
When  I  think  whose  fault  all  this  is!" 

Mrs.  Rosenfeld  put  out  a  work-hardened  hand 
and  caught  Christine's  fingers. 

"Never  mind  that,"  she  said.  "You  did  n't  do 
it.  I  guess  you  and  I  understand  each  other.  Only 
pray  God  you  never  have  a  child." 

K.  never  forgot  the  scene  in  the  small  emergency 
233 


ward  to  which  Johnny  had  been  taken.  Under  the 
white  lights  his  boyish  figure  looked  strangely  long. 
There  was  a  group  around  the  bed  —  Max  Wilson, 
two  or  three  internes,  the  night  nurse  on  duty,  and 
the  Head. 

Sitting  just  inside  the  door  on  a  straight  chair  was 
Sidney  —  such  a  Sidney  as  he  never  had  seen  before, 
her  face  colorless,  her  eyes  wide  and  unseeing,  her 
hands  clenched  in  her  lap.  When  he  stood  beside 
her,  she  did  not  move  or  look  up.  The  group  around 
the  bed  had  parted  to  admit  Mrs.  Rosenfeld,  and 
closed  again.  Only  Sidney  and  K.  remained  by  the 
door,  isolated,  alone. 

"You  must  not  take  it  like  that,  dear.  It's  sad, 
of  course.  But,  after  all,  in  that  condition  — " 

It  was  her  first  knowledge  that  he  was  there.  But 
she  did  not  turn. 

"They  say  I  poisoned  him."  Her  voice  was  dreary, 
inflectionless. 

"You  — what?" 

"They  say  I  gave  him  the  wrong  medicine;  that 
he's  dying;  that  I  murdered  him."  She  shivered. 

K.  touched  her  hands.   They  were  ice-cold. 

"Tell  me  about  it." 

"There  is  nothing  to  tell.  I  came  on  duty  at  six 
o'clock  and  gave  the  medicines.  When  the  night 
nurse  came  on  at  seven,  everything  was  all  right. 
The  medicine-tray  was  just  as  it  should  be.  Johnny 
was  asleep.  I  went  to  say  good-night  to  him  and  he 
—  he  was  asleep.  I  did  n't  give  him  anything  but 

234 


what  was  on  the  tray,"  she  finished  piteously.  "I 
looked  at  the  label;  I  always  look." 

By  a  shifting  of  the  group  around  the  bed,  K.'s 
eyes  looked  for  a  moment  directly  into  Carlotta's. 
Just  for  a  moment;  then  the  crowd  closed  up  again. 
It  was  well  for  Carlotta  that  it  did.  She  looked  as  if 
she  had  seen  a  ghost  —  closed  her  eyes,  even  reeled. 

"Miss  Harrison  is  worn  out,"  Dr.  Wilson  said 
brusquely.  "Get  some  one  to  take  her  place." 

But  Carlotta  rallied.  After  all,  the  presence  of  this 
man  in  this  room  at  such  a  time  meant  nothing.  He 
was  Sidney's  friend,  that  was  all. 

But  her  nerve  was  shaken.  The  thing  had  gone 
beyond  her.  She  had  not  meant  to  kill.  It  was  the 
boy's  weakened  condition  that  was  turning  her  re- 
venge into  tragedy. 

"  I  am  all  right,"  she  pleaded  across  the  bed  to  the 
Head.  "Let  me  stay,  please.  He's  from  my  ward. 
I  —  I  am  responsible." 

Wilson  was  at  his  wits'  end.  He  had  done  every- 
thing he  knew  without  result.  The  boy,  rousing  for 
an  instant,  would  lapse  again  into  stupor.  With  a 
healthy  man  they  could  have  tried  more  vigorous 
measures  —  could  have  forced  him  to  his  feet  and 
walked  him  about,  could  have  beaten  him  with 
knotted  towels  dipped  in  ice-water.  But  the  wrecked 
body  on  the  bed  could  stand  no  such  heroic  treat- 
ment. 

It  was  Le  Moyne,  after  all,  who  saved  Johnny 
Rosenf eld's  life.  For,  when  staff  and  nurses  had  ex- 

235 


hausted  all  their  resources,  he  stepped  forward  with 
a  quiet  word  that  brought  the  internes  to  their  feet 
astonished. 

There  was  a  new  treatment  for  such  cases  —  it 
had  been  tried  abroad.  He  looked  at  Max. 

Max  had  never  heard  of  it.  He  threw  out  his 
hands. 

"Try  it,  for  Heaven's  sake," he  said.  " I'm  all  in." 

The  apparatus  was  not  in  the  house  —  must  be 
extemporized,  indeed,  at  last,  of  odds  and  ends  from 
the  operating-room.  K.  did  the  work,  his  long  fingers 
deft  and  skillful  —  while  Mrs.  Rosenfeld  knelt  by 
the  bed  with  her  face  buried;  while  Sidney  sat, 
dazed  and  bewildered,  on  her  little  chair  inside  the 
door;  while  night  nurses  tiptoed  along  the  corridor, 
and  the  night  watchman  stared  incredulous  from 
outside  the  door. 

When  the  two  great  rectangles  that  were  the  emer- 
gency ward  windows  had  turned  from  mirrors  re- 
flecting the  room  to  gray  rectangles  in  the  morning 
light,  Johnny  Rosenfeld  opened  his  eyes  and  spoke 
the  first  words  that  marked  his  return  from  the 
dark  valley. 

"Gee,  this  is  the  life!"  he  said,  and  smiled  into 
K.'s  watchful  face. 

When  it  was  clear  that  the  boy  would  live,  K.  rose 
stiffly  from  the  bedside  and  went  over  to  Sidney's 
chair. 

"He's  all  right  now,"  he  said  —  "as  all  right  as 
he  can  be,  poor  lad!" 

236 


11  You  did  it  —  you !  How  strange  that  you  should 
know  such  a  thing.  How  am  I  to  thank  you?" 

The  internes,  talking  among  themselves,  had  wan- 
dered down  to  their  dining-room  for  early  coffee. 
Wilson  was  giving  a  few  last  instructions  as  to  the 
boy's  care.  Quite  unexpectedly,  Sidney  caught  K.'s 
hand  and  held  it  to  her  lips.  The  iron  repression  of 
the  night,  of  months  indeed,  fell  away  before  her 
simple  caress. 

"My  dear,  my  dear,"  he  said  huskily.  "Any- 
thing that  I  can  do  —  for  you  —  at  any  time  — " 

It  was  after  Sidney  had  crept  like  a  broken  thing 
to  her  room  that  Carlotta  Harrison  and  K.  came 
face  to  face.  Johnny  was  quite  conscious  by  that 
time,  a  little  blue  around  the  lips,  but  valiantly 
cheerful. 

"More  things  can  happen  to  a  fellow  than  I  ever 
knew  there  was!"  he  said  to  his  mother,  and  sub- 
mitted rather  sheepishly  to  her  tears  and  caresses. 

"You  were  always  a  good  boy,  Johnny,"  she  said. 
"Just  you  get  well  enough  to  come  home.  I  '11  take 
care  of  you  the  rest  of  my  life.  We  will  get  you  a 
wheel-chair  when  you  can  be  about,  and  I  can  take 
you  out  in  the  park  when  I  come  from  work." 

"I'll  be  passenger  and  you'll  be  chauffeur,  ma." 

"Mr.  Le  Moyne  is  going  to  get  your  father  sent 
up  again.  With  sixty- five  cents  a  day  and  what  I 
make,  we'll  get  along." 

"You  bet  we  will!" 

"Oh,  Johnny,  if  I  could  see  you  coming  in  the 

237 


door  again  and  yelling  '  mother '  and  '  supper '  in  one 
breath!" 

The  meeting  between  Carlotta  and  Le  Moyne  was 
very  quiet.  She  had  been  making  a  sort  of  subcon- 
scious impression  on  the  retina  of  his  mind  during 
all  the  night.  It  would  be  difficult  to  tell  when  he 
actually  knew  her. 

When  the  preparations  for  moving  Johnny  back 
to  the  big  ward  had  been  made,  the  other  nurses  left 
the  room,  and  Carlotta  and  the  boy  were  together. 
K.  stopped  her  on  her  way  to  the  door. 

"Miss  Harrison!" 

"Yes,  Dr.  Edwardes." 

"I  am  not  Dr.  Edwardes  here;  my  name  is  Le 
Moyne." 

"Ah!" 

"  I  have  not  seen  you  since  you  left  St.  John's.*' 

"No;  I  —  I  rested  for  a  few  months." 

"I  suppose  they  do  not  know  that  you  were  — 
that  you  have  had  any  previous  hospital  experi- 


ence." 


"No.   Are  you  going  to  tell  them?" 

"  I  shall  not  tell  them,  of  course." 

And  thus,  by  simple  mutual  consent,  it  was  ar- 
ranged that  each  should  respect  the  other's  con- 
fidence. 

Carlotta  staggered  to  her  room.  There  had  been 
a  time,  just  before  dawn,  when  she  had  had  one 
of  those  swift  revelations  that  sometimes  come  at  the 
end  of  a  long  night.  She  had  seen  herself  as  she  was. 

238 


The  boy  was  very  low,  hardly  breathing.  Her  past 
stretched  behind  her,  a  series  of  small  revenges  and 
passionate  outbursts,  swift  yieldings,  slow  remorse. 
She  dared  not  look  ahead.  She  would  have  given 
every  hope  she  had  in  the  world,  just  then,  for  Sid- 
ney's stainless  past. 

She  hated  herself  with  that  deadliest  loathing  that 
comes  of  complete  self- revelation. 

And  she  carried  to  her  room  the  knowledge  that 
the  night's  struggle  had  been  in  vain  —  that,  al- 
though Johnny  Rosenfeld  would  live,  she  had  gained 
nothing  by  what  he  had  suffered.  The  whole  night 
had  shown  her  the  hopelessness  of  any  stratagem 
to  win  Wilson  from  his  new  allegiance.  She  had  sur- 
prised him  in  the  hallway,  watching  Sidney's  slender 
figure  as  she  made  her  way  up  the  stairs  to  her  room. 
Never,  in  all  his  past  overtures  to  her,  had  she  seen 
that  look  in  his  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

To  Harriet  Kennedy,  Sidney's  sentence  of  thirty 
days'  suspension  came  as  a  blow.  K.  broke  the  news 
to  her  that  evening  before  the  time  for  Sidney's 
arrival. 

The  little  household  was  sharing  in  Harriet's  pros- 
perity. Katie  had  a  helper  now,  a  little  Austrian  girl 
named  Mimi.  And  Harriet  had  established  on  the 
Street  the  innovation  of  after-dinner  coffee.  It  was 
over  the  after-dinner  coffee  that  K.  made  his  an- 
nouncement. 

1 '  What  do  you  mean  by  saying  she  is  coming  home 
for  thirty  days?  Is  the  child  ill?" 

"  Not  ill,  although  she  is  not  quite  well.  The  fact 
is,  Harriet, "  —  for  it  was  "  Harriet "  and  "  K."  by  this 
time,  —  "there  has  been  a  sort  of  semi-accident 
up  at  the  hospital.  It  hasn't  resulted  seriously, 
but  —  " 

Harriet  put  down  the  apostle-spoon  in  her  hand 
and  stared  across  at  him. 

"Then  she  has  been  suspended?  What  did  she 
do?  I  don't  believe  she  did  anything!" 

"There  was  a  mistake  about  the  medicine,  and 
she  was  blamed;  that's  all." 

"She'd  better  come  home  and  stay  home,"  said 
Harriet  shortly.  "I  hope  it  doesn't  get  in  the 
papers.  This  dressmaking  business  is  a  funny  sort 

240 


of  thing.  One  word  against  you  or  any  of  your  fam- 
ily, and  the  crowd's  off  somewhere  else." 

"There's  nothing  against  Sidney,"  K.  reminded 
her.  "Nothing  in  the  world.  I  saw  the  superinten- 
dent myself  this  afternoon.  It  seems  it's  a  mere 
matter  of  discipline.  Somebody  made  a  mistake,  and 
they  cannot  let  such  a  thing  go  by.  But  he  believes, 
as  I  do,  that  it  was  not  Sidney." 

However  Harriet  had  hardened  herself  against 
the  girl's  arrival,  all  she  had  meant  to  say  fled 
when  she  saw  Sidney's  circled  eyes  and  pathetic 
mouth. 

"You  child!"  she  said.  "You  poor  little  girl!" 
And  took  her  to  her  corseted  bosom. 

For  the  time  at  least,  Sidney's  world  had  gone  to 
pieces  about  her.  All  her  brave  vaunt  of  service 
faded  before  her  disgrace. 

When  Christine  would  have  seen  her,  she  kept 
her  door  locked  and  asked  for  just  that  one  evening 
alone.  But  after  Harriet  had  retired,  and  Mimi,  the 
Austrian,  had  crept  out  to  the  corner  to  mail  a 
letter  back  to  Gratz,  Sidney  unbolted  her  door  and 
listened  in  the  little  upper  hall.  Harriet,  her  head 
in  a  towel,  her  face  carefully  cold-creamed,  had  gone 
to  bed;  but  K.'s  light,  as  usual,  was  shining  over  the 
transom.  Sidney  tiptoed  to  the  door. 

"K.!" 

Almost  immediately  he  opened  the  door. 

"May  I  come  in  and  talk  to  you?" 

He  turned  and  took  a  quick  survey  of  the  room. 
241 


The  picture  was  against  the  collar-box.  But  he  took 
the  risk  and  held  the  door  wide. 

Sidney  came  in  and  sat  down  by  the  fire.  By  being 
adroit  he  managed  to  slip  the  little  picture  over  and 
under  the  box  before  she  saw  it.  It  is  doubtful  if  she 
would  have  realized  its  significance,  had  she  seen  it. 

"I've  been  thinking  things  over,"  she  said.  "It 
seems  to  me  I  'd  better  not  go  back." 

He  had  left  the  door  carefully  open.  Men  are  al- 
ways more  conventional  than  women. 

"That  would  be  foolish,  would  n't  it,  when  you 
have  done  so  well?  And,  besides,  since  you  are  not 
guilty,  Sidney — " 

"  I  did  n't  do  it ! "  she  cried  passionately.  "  I  know 
I  did  n't.  But  I  've  lost  faith  in  myself.  I  can't  keep 
on ;  that 's  all  there  is  to  it.  All  last  night,  in  the  emer- 
gency ward,  I  felt  it  going.  I  clutched  at  it.  I  kept 
saying  to  myself:  'You  didn't  do  it,  you  did  n't 
do  it';  and  all  the  time  something  inside  of  me 
was  saying,  '  Not  now,  perhaps ;  but  sometime  you 
may/  " 

Poor  K.,  who  had  reasoned  all  this  out  for  him- 
self and  had  come  to  the  same  impasse! 

"To  go  on  like  this,  feeling  that  one  has  life  and 
death  in  one's  hand,  and  then  perhaps  some  day  to 
make  a  mistake  like  that!"  She  looked  up  at  him 
forlornly.  "I  am  just  not  brave  enough,  K." 

"Would  n't  it  be  braver  to  keep  on?  Are  n't  you 
giving  up  very  easily?" 

Her  world  was  in  pieces  about  her,  and  she  felt 
242 


alone  in  a  wide  and  empty  place.  And,  because  her 
nerves  were  drawn  taut  until  they  were  ready  to 
snap,  Sidney  turned  on  him  shrewishly. 

"I  think  you  are  all  afraid  I  will  come  back  to 
stay.  Nobody  really  wants  me  anywhere  —  in  all 
the  world!  Not  at  the  hospital,  not  here,  not  any 
place.  I  am  no  use." 

"  When  you  say  that  nobody  wants  you,"  said  K., 
not  very  steadily,  "I  —  I  think  you  are  making  a 
mistake." 

"Who? "she  demanded.  "Christine?  Aunt  Har- 
riet? Katie?  The  only  person  who  ever  really  wanted 
me  was  my  mother,  and  I  went  away  and  left  her!" 

She  scanned  his  face  closely,  and,  reading  there 
something  she  did  not  understand,  she  colored  sud- 
denly. 

"I  believe  you  mean  Joe  Drummond." 

"No;  I  do  not  mean  Joe  Drummond." 

If  he  had  found  any  encouragement  in  her  face, 
he  would  have  gone  on  recklessly ;  but  her  blank  eye« 
warned  him. 

"If  you  mean  Max  Wilson,"  said  Sidney,  "you 
are  entirely  wrong.  He's  not  in  love  with  me  —  not, 
that  is,  any  more  than  he  is  in  love  with  a  dozen 
girls.  He  likes  to  be  with  me  —  oh,  I  know  that;  but 
that  does  n't  mean  —  anything  else.  Anyhow,  after 
this  disgrace  — " 

"There  is  no  disgrace,  child." 

"He'll  think  me  careless,  at  the  least.  And  his 
ideals  are  so  high,  K." 

243 


"You  say  he  likes  to  be  with  you.  What  about 
you?" 

Sidney  had  been  sitting  in  a  low  chair  by  the  fire. 
She  rose  with  a  sudden  passionate  movement.  In 
the  informality  of  the  household,  she  had  visited 
K.  in  her  dressing-gown  and  slippers;  and  now  she 
stood  before  him,  a  tragic  young  figure,  clutching  the 
folds  of  her  gown  across  her  breast. 

"  I  worship  him,  K.,"  she  said  tragically.  "When 
I  see  him  coming,  I  want  to  get  down  and  let  him 
walk  on  me.  I  know  his  step  in  the  hall.  I  know  the 
very  way  he  rings  for  the  elevator.  When  I  see  him 
in  the  operating-room,  cool  -and  calm  while  every 
one  else  is  flustered  and  excited,  he  —  he  looks  like 
a  god." 

Then,  half  ashamed  of  her  outburst,  she  turned 
her  back  to  him  and  stood  gazing  at  the  small  coal 
fire.  It  was  as  well  for  K.  that  she  did  not  see  his 
face.  For  that  one  moment  the  despair  that  was  in 
him  shone  in  his  eyes.  He  glanced  around  the  shabby 
little  room,  at  the  sagging  bed,  the  collar-box,  the  pin- 
cushion, the  old  marble-topped  bureau  under  which 
Reginald  had  formerly  made  his  nest,  at  his  untidy 
table,  littered  with  pipes  and  books,  at  the  image  in 
the  mirror  of  his  own  tall  figure,  stooped  and  weary. 

"It's  real,  all  this?"  he  asked  after  a  pause. 
"You're  sure  it's  not  just  —  glamour,  Sidney?" 

"It's  real — ..terribly  real."  Her  voice  was 
muffled,  and  he  knew  then  that  she  was  crying. 

She  was  mightily  ashamed  of  it.  Tears,  of  course, 
244 


except  in  the  privacy  of  one's  closet,  were  not  ethi- 
cal on  the  Street. 

"Perhaps  he  cares  very  much,  too." 

"Give  me  a  handkerchief,"  said  Sidney  in  a 
muffled  tone,  and  the  little  scene  was  broken  into 
while  K.  searched  through  a  bureau  drawer.  Then: 

"It's  all  over,  anyhow,  since  this.  If  he'd  really 
cared  he'd  have  come  over  to-night.  When  one  is 
in  trouble  one  needs  friends." 

Back  in  a  circle  she  came  inevitably  to  her  sus- 
pension. She  would  never  go  back,  she  said  passion- 
ately. She  was  innocent,  had  been  falsely  accused. 
If  they  could  think  such  a  thing  about  her,  she 
didn't  want  to  be  in  their  old  hospital. 

K.  questioned  her,  alternately  soothing  and 
probing. 

"You  are  positive  about  it?" 

"Absolutely.  I  have  given  him  his  medicines 
dozens  of  times." 

"You  looked  at  the  label?" 

"I  swear  I  did,  K." 

"Who  else  had  access  to  the  medicine  closet?" 

"Carlotta  Harrison  carried  the  keys,  of  course. 
I  was  off  duty  from  four  to  six.  When  Carlotta  left 
the  ward,  the  probationer  would  have  them." 

"  Have  you  reason  to  think  that  either  one  of  these 
girls  would  wish  you  harm?" 

"  None  whatever,"  began  Sidney  vehemently;  and 
then,  checking  herself,  —  "unless  —  but  that's  ra- 
ther ridiculous." 

245 


"What  is  ridiculous?" 

"I've  sometimes  thought  that  Carlotta —  but  I 
am  sure  she  is  perfectly  fair  with  me.  Even  if  she 
—  if  she—  " 

"Yes?" 

"Even  if  she  likes  Dr.  Wilson,  I  don't  believe  — 
Why,  K.,  she  would  n't!  It  would  be  murder." 

"Murder,  of  course,"  said  K.,  "in  intention,  any- 
how. Of  course  she  did  n't  do  it.  I  'm  only  trying  to 
find  out  whose  mistake  it  was." 

Soon  after  that  she  said  good-night  and  went  out. 
She  turned  in  the  doorway  and  smiled  tremulously 
back  at  him. 

"You  have  done  me  a  lot  of  good.  You  almost 
make  me  believe  in  myself." 

"That's  because  I  believe  in  you." 

With  a  quick  movement  that  was  one  of  her 
charms,  Sidney  suddenly  closed  the  door  and  slipped 
back  into  the  room.  K.,  hearing  the  door  close, 
thought  she  had  gone,  and  dropped  heavily  into  a 
chair. 

"My  best  friend  in  all  the  world!"  said  Sidney 
suddenly  from  behind  him,  and,  bending  over,  she 
kissed  him  on  the  cheek. 

The  next  instant  the  door  had  closed  behind  her, 
and  K.  was  left  alone  to  such  wretchedness  and  bliss 
as  the  evening  had  brought  him. 

On  toward  morning,  Harriet,  who  slept  but  rest- 
lessly in  her  towel,  wakened  to  the  glare  of  his  light 
over  the  transom. 

246 


"  K. ! "  she  called  pettishly  from  her  door.  "  I  wish 
you  would  n't  go  to  sleep  and  let  your  light  burn!" 

K.,  surmising  the  towel  and  cold  cream,  had  the 
tact  not  to  open  his  door. 

"I  am  not  asleep,  Harriet,  and  I  am  sorry  about 
the  light.  It's  going  out  now." 

Before  he  extinguished  the  light,  he  walked  over 
to  the  old  dresser  and  surveyed  himself  in  the  glass. 
Two  nights  without  sleep  and  much  anxiety  had 
told  on  him.  He  looked  old,  haggard,  infinitely  tired. 
Mentally  he  compared  himself  with  Wilson,  flushed 
with  success,  erect,  triumphant,  almost  insolent. 
Nothing  had  more  certainly  told  him  the  hopelessness 
of  his  love  for  Sidney  than  her  good-night  kiss.  He 
was  her  brother,  her  friend.  He  would  never  be  her 
lover.  He  drew  a  long  breath  and  proceeded  to  un- 
dress in  the  dark. 

Joe  Drummond  came  to  see  Sidney  the  next  day. 
She  would  have  avoided  him  if  she  could,  but  Mimi 
had  ushered  him  up  to  the  sewing-room  boudoir 
before  she  had  time  to  escape.  She  had  not  seen  the 
boy  for  two  months,  and  the  change  in  him  startled 
her.  He  was  thinner,  rather  hectic,  scrupulously 
well  dressed. 

"Why,  Joe!"  she  said,  and  then:  " Won't  you  sit 
down?" 

He  was  still  rather  theatrical.  He  dramatized 
himself,  as  he  had  that  night  the  June  before  when 
he  had  asked  Sidney  to  marry  him.  He  stood  just 
inside  the  doorway.  He  offered  no  conventional 

247 


greeting  whatever;  but,  after  surveying  her  briefly, 
her  black  gown,  the  lines  around  her  eyes:  — 

"You  're  not  going  back  to  that  place,  of  course?  " 

11 1  —  I  have  n't  decided." 

"Then  somebody's  got  to  decide  for  you.  The 
thing  for  you  to  do  is  to  stay  right  here,  Sidney. 
People  know  you  on  the  Street.  Nobody  here  would 
ever  accuse  you  of  trying  to  murder  anybody." 

In  spite  of  herself,  Sidney  smiled  a  little. 

"Nobody  thinks  I  tried  to  murder  him.  It  was  a 
mistake  about  the  medicines.  I  did  n't  do  it,  Joe." 

His  love  was  purely  selfish,  for  he  brushed  aside 
her  protest  as  if  she  had  not  spoken. 

"You  give  me  the  word  and  I' 11  go  and  get  your 
things;  I  've  got  a  car  of  my  own  now." 

"  But,  Joe,  they  have  only  done  what  they  thought 
was  right.  Whoever  made  it,  there  was  a  mistake." 

He  stared  at  her  incredulously. 

"You  don't  mean  that  you  are  going  to  stand  for 
this  sort  of  thing?  Every  time  some  fool  makes  a 
mistake,  are  they  going  to  blame  it  on  you?" 

"Please  don't  be  theatrical.  Come  in  and  sit 
down.  I  can't  talk  to  you  if  you  explode  like  a 
rocket  all  the  time." 

Her  matter-of-fact  tone  had  its  effect.  He  ad- 
vanced into  the  room,  but  he  still  scorned  a  chair. 

"  I  guess  you  've  been  wondering  why  you  have  n't 
heard  from  me,"  he  said.  "  I  've  seen  you  more  than 
you've  seen  me." 

Sidney  looked  uneasy.  The  idea  of  espionage  is 
248 


always  repugnant,  and  to  have  a  rejected  lover  al- 
ways in  the  offing,  as  it  were,  was  disconcerting. 

"I  wish  you  would  be  just  a  little  bit  sensible, 
Joe.  It's  so  silly  of  you,  really.  It's  not  because  you 
care  for  me;  it's  really  because  you  care  for  your- 
self." 

"You  can't  look  at  me  and  say  that,  Sid." 

He  ran  his  finger  around  his  collar  —  an  old 
gesture;  but  the  collar  was  very  loose.  He  was 
thin;  his  neck  showed  it. 

"  I  'm  just  eating  my  heart  out  for  you,  and  that's 
the  truth.  And  it  is  n't  only  that.  Everywhere  I 
go,  people  say,  'There's  the  fellow  Sidney  Page 
turned  down  when  she  went  into  the  hospital.'  I  've 
got  so  I  keep  off  the  Street  as  much  as  I  can." 

Sidney  was  half  alarmed,  half  irritated.  This  wild, 
excited  boy  was  not  the  doggedly  faithful  youth  she 
had  always  known.  It  seemed  to  her  that  he  was 
hardly  sane  —  that  underneath  his  quiet  manner 
and  carefully  repressed  voice  there  lurked  some- 
thing irrational,  something  she  could  not  cope  with. 
She  looked  up  at  him  helplessly. 

"But  what  do  you  want  me  to  do?  You  —  you 
almost  frighten  me.  If  you'd  only  sit  down  — " 

11 1  want  you  to  come  home.  I  'm  not  asking  any- 
thing else  now.  I  just  want  you  to  come  back,  so 
that  things  will  be  the  way  they  used  to  be.  Now 
that  they  have  turned  you  out  — " 

"They've  done  nothing  of  the  sort.  I've  told 
you  that." 

249 


"You're  going  back?" 

"Absolutely." 

"Because  you  love  the  hospital,  or  because  you 
love  somebody  connected  with  the  hospital?" 

Sidney  was  thoroughly  angry  by  this  time,  angry 
and  reckless.  She  had  come  through  so  much  that 
every  nerve  was  crying  in  passionate  protest. 

"If  it  will  make  you  understand  things  any  bet- 
ter," she  cried,  "  I  am  going  back  for  both  reasons!" 

She  was  sorry  the  next  moment.  But  her  words 
seemed,  surprisingly  enough,  to  steady  him.  For  the 
first  time,  he  sat  down. 

"Then,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  it's  all  over,  is 
it?" 

"Yes,  Joe.   I  told  you  that  long  ago." 

He  seemed  hardly  to  be  listening.  His  thoughts 
had  ranged  far  ahead.  Suddenly:  — 

"You  think  Christine  has  her  hands  full  with 
Palmer,  don't  you?  Well,  if  you  take  Max  Wilson, 
you're  going  to  have  more  trouble  than  Christine 
ever  dreamed  of.  I  can  tell  you  some  things  about 
him  now  that  will  make  you  think  twice." 

But  Sidney  had  reached  her  limit.  She  went  over 
and  flung  open  the  door. 

"Every  word  that  you  say  shows  me  how  right  I 
am  in  not  marrying  you,  Joe,"  she  said.  "  Real  men 
do  not  say  those  things  about  each  other  under  any 
circumstances.  You're  behaving  like  a  bad  boy. 
I  don't  want  you  to  come  back  until  you  have  grown 
up." 

250 


He  was  very  white,  but  he  picked  up  his  hat  and 
went  to  the  door. 

"  I  guess  I  am  crazy,"  he  said.  "  I've  been  wanting 
to  go  away,  but  mother  raises  such  a  fuss  —  I  '11  not 
annoy  you  any  more." 

He  reached  in  his  pocket  and,  pulling  out  a  small 
box,  held  it  toward  her.  The  lid  was  punched  full  of 
holes. 

"Reginald,"  he  said  solemnly.  " I've  had  him  all 
winter.  Some  boys  caught  him  in  the  park,  and  I 
brought  him  home." 

He  left  her  standing  there  speechless  with  sur- 
prise, with  the  box  in  her  hand,  and  ran  down  the 
stairs  and  out  into  the  Street.  At  the  foot  of  the 
steps  he  almost  collided  with  Dr.  Ed. 

"Back  to  see  Sidney?"  said  Dr.  Ed  genially* 
"That's  fine,  Joe.  I 'm  glad  you've  made  it  up." 

The  boy  went  blindly  down  the  Street. 


CHAPTER  XX 

WINTER  relaxed  its  clutch  slowly  that  year.  March 
was  bitterly  cold;  even  April  found  the  roads  still 
frozen  and  the  hedgerows  clustered  with  ice.  But 
at  mid-day  there  was  spring  in  the  air.  In  the 
courtyard  of  the  hospital,  convalescents  sat  on  the 
benches  and  watched  for  robins.  The  fountain, 
which  had  frozen  out,  was  being  repaired.  Here  and 
there  on  ward  window-sills  tulips  opened  their 
gaudy  petals  to  the  sun. 

Harriet  had  gone  abroad  for  a  flying  trip  in  March, 
and  came  back  laden  with  new  ideas,  model  gowns, 
and  fresh  enthusiasm.  She  carried  out  and  planted 
flowers  on  her  sister's  grave,  and  went  back  to  her 
work  with  a  feeling  of  duty  done.  A  combination  of 
crocuses  and  snow  on  the  ground  had  given  her  an 
inspiration  for  a  gown.  She  drew  it  in  pencil  on  an 
envelope  on  her  way  back  in  the  street  car. 

Grace  Irving,  having  made  good  during  the  white 
sales,  had  been  sent  to  the  spring  cottons.  She  began 
to  walk  with  her  head  higher.  The  day  she  sold 
Sidney  material  for  a  simple  white  gown,  she  was 
very  happy.  Once  a  customer  brought  her  a  bunch 
of  primroses.  All  day  she  kept  them  under  the 
counter  in  a  glass  of  water,  and  at  evening  she  took 
them  to  Johnny  Rosenfeld,  still  lying  prone  in  the 
hospital. 

252 


On  Sidney,  on  K.,  and  on  Christine  the  winter  had 
left  its  mark  heavily.  Christine,  readjusting  her  life 
to  new  conditions,  was  graver,  more  thoughtful.  She 
was  alone  most  of  the  time  now.  Under  K.'s  guid- 
ance, she  had  given  up  the  "  Duchess"  and  was  read- 
ing real  books.  She  was  thinking  real  thoughts,  too, 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life. 

Sidney,  as  tender  as  ever,  had  lost  a  little  of  the 
radiance  from  her  eyes;  her  voice  had  deepened. 
Where  she  had  been  a  pretty  girl,  she  was  now  lovely. 
She  was  back  in  the  hospital  again,  this  time  in  the 
children's  ward.  K.,  going  in  one  day  to  take 
Johnny  Rosenfeld  a  basket  of  fruit,  saw  her  there 
with  a  child  in  her  arms,  and  a  light  in  her  eyes  that 
he  had  never  seen  before.  It  hurt  him,  rather — • 
things  being  as  they  were  with  him.  When  he  came 
out  he  looked  straight  ahead. 

With  the  opening  of  spring  the  little  house  at  Hill- 
foot  took  on  fresh  activities.  Tillie  was  house-clean- 
ing with  great  thoroughness.  She  scrubbed  carpets, 
took  down  the  clean  curtains,  and  put  them  up  again 
freshly  starched.  It  was  as  if  she  found  in  sheer 
activity  and  fatigue  a  remedy  for  her  uneasiness. 

Business  had  not  been  very  good.  The  impeccable 
character  of  the  little  house  had  been  against  it. 
True,  Mr.  Schwitter  had  a  little  bar  and  served  the 
best  liquors  he  could  buy ;  but  he  discouraged  rowdi- 
ness  —  had  been  known  to  refuse  to  sell  to  boys 
under  twenty-one  and  to  men  who  had  already  over- 
indulged. The  word  went  about  that  Schwitter's  was 

253 


no  place  for  a  good  time.  Even  Tillie's  chicken  and 
waffles  failed  against  this  handicap. 

By  the  middle  of  April  the  house-cleaning  was 
done.  One  or  two  motor  parties  had  come  out,  dined 
sedately  and  wined  moderately,  and  had  gone  back 
to  the  city  again.  The  next  two  weeks  saw  the 
weather  clear.  The  roads  dried  up,  robins  filled  the 
trees  with  their  noisy  spring  songs,  and  still  business 
continued  dull. 

By  the  first  day  of  May,  Tillie's  uneasiness  had 
become  certainty.  On  that  morning  Mr.  Sch witter, 
coming  in  from  the  early  milking,  found  her  sitting 
in  the  kitchen,  her  face  buried  in  her  apron.  He 
put  down  the  milk-pails  and,  going  over  to  her,  put 
a  hand  on  her  head. 

"I  guess  there's  no  mistake,  then?" 

" There's  no  mistake,"  said  poor  Tillie  into  her 
apron. 

He  bent  down  and  kissed  the  back  of  her  neck. 
Then,  when  she  failed  to  brighten,  he  tiptoed  around 
the  kitchen,  poured  the  milk  into  pans,  and  rinsed 
the  buckets,  working  methodically  in  his  heavy  way. 
The  tea-kettle  had  boiled  dry.  He  filled  that,  too. 
Then:  — 

"Do  you  want  to  see  a  doctor?" 

"I'd  better  see  somebody,"  she  said,  without 
looking  up.  "And  —  don't  think  I  'm  blaming  you. 
I  guess  I  don't  really  blame  anybody.  As  far  as  that 
goes,  I  Ve  wanted  a  child  right  along.  It  is  n't 
the  trouble  I  am  thinking  of,  either." 

254 


He  nodded.  Words  were  unnecessary  between 
them.  He  made  some  tea  clumsily  and  browned  her 
a  piece  of  toast.  When  he  had  put  them  on  one  end 
of  the  kitchen  table,  he  went  over  to  her  again. 

"  I  guess  I  'd  ought  to  have  thought  of  this  before, 
but  all  I  thought  of  was  trying  to  get  a  little  happiness 
out  of  life.  And,"  —  he  stroked  her  arm,  —  "as  far 
as  I  am  concerned,  it's  been  worth  while,  Tillie. 
No  matter  what  I  've  had  to  do,  I  've  always  looked 
forward  to  coming  back  here  to  you  in  the  evening. 
Maybe  I  don't  say  it  enough,  but  I  guess  you  know 
I  feel  it  all  right." 

Without  looking  up,  she  placed  her  hand  over 
his. 

"I  guess  we  started  wrong,"  he  went  on.  "You 
can't  build  happiness  on  what  is  n't  right.  You  and 
I  can  manage  well  enough ;  but  now  that  there 's  go- 
ing to  be  another,  it  looks  different,  somehow." 

After  that  morning  Tillie  took  up  her  burden 
stoically.  The  hope  of  motherhood  alternated  with 
black  fits  of  depression.  She  sang  at  her  work,  to 
burst  out  into  sudden  tears. 

Other  things  were  not  going  well.  Sch witter  had 
given  up  his  nursery  business;  but  the  motorists  who 
came  to  Hillfoot  did  not  come  back.  When,  at  last, 
he  took  the  horse  and  buggy  and  drove  about  the 
country  for  orders,  he  was  too  late.  Other  nursery- 
men had  been  before  him ;  shrubberies  and  orchards 
were  already  being  set  out.  The  second  payment  on 
his  mortgage  would  be  due  in  July.  By  the  middle 

255 


of  May  they  were  frankly  up  against  it.  Schwitter  at 
last  dared  to  put  the  situation  into  words. 

"We're  not  making  good,  Til,"  he  said.  "And  I 
guess  you  know  the  reason.  We  are  too  decent ;  that 's 
what's  the  matter  with  us."  There  was  no  irony  in 
his  words. 

With  all  her  sophistication,  Tillie  was  vastly  ig- 
norant of  life.  He  had  to  explain. 

"We'll  have  to  keep  a  sort  of  hotel,"  he  said 
lamely.  "Sell  to  everybody  that  comes  along,  and 
—  if  parties  want  to  stay  over-night  — " 

Tillie' s  white  face  turned  crimson. 

uril  do  no  such  thing." 

He  attempted  a  compromise.  "  If  it 's  bad  weather, 
and  they're  married  — " 

"How  are  we  to  know  if  they  are  married  or  not? " 

He  admired  her  very  much  for  it.  He  had  always 
respected  her.  But  the  situation  was  not  less  acute. 
There  were  two  or  three  unfurnished  rooms  on  the 
second  floor.  He  began  to  make  tentative  sugges- 
tions as  to  their  furnishing.  Once  he  got  a  catalogue 
from  an  installment  house,  and  tried  to  hide  it 
from  her.  Tillie's  eyes  blazed.  She  burned  it  in  the 
kitchen  stove. 

Schwitter  himself  was  ashamed ;  but  the  idea  ob- 
sessed him.  Other  people  fattened  on  the  frailties 
of  human  nature.  Two  miles  away,  on  the  other 
road,  was  a  public  house  that  had  netted  the  owner 
ten  thousand  dollars  profit  the  year  before.  They 
bought  their  beer  from  the  same  concern.  He  was  not 

256 


as  young  as  he  had  been;  there  was  the  expense  of 
keeping  his  wife  —  he  had  never  allowed  her  to  go 
into  the  charity  ward  at  the  asylum.  Now  that  there 
was  going  to  be  a  child,  there  would  be  three  people 
dependent  upon  him.  He  was  past  fifty,  and  not 
robust. 

One  night,  after  Tillie  was  asleep,  he  slipped  noise- 
lessly into  his  clothes  and  out  to  the  barn,  where  he 
hitched  up  the  horse  with  nervous  fingers. 

Tillie  never  learned  of  that  midnight  excursion  to 
the  "Climbing  Rose,"  two  miles  away.  Lights 
blazed  in  every  window;  a  dozen  automobiles  were 
parked  before  the  barn.  Somebody  was  playing  a 
piano.  From  the  bar  came  the  jingle  of  glasses  and 
loud,  cheerful  conversation. 

When  Schwitter  turned  the  horse's  head  back 
toward  Hillfoot,  his  mind  was  made  up.  He  would 
furnish  the  upper  rooms;  he  would  bring  a  bar- 
keeper from  town  —  these  people  wanted  mixed 
drinks ;  he  could  get  a  second-hand  piano  somewhere. 

Tillie's  rebellion  was  instant  and  complete.  When 
she  found  him  determined,  she  made  the  compro- 
mise that  her  condition  necessitated.  She  could  not 
leave  him,  but  she  would  not  stay  in  the  rehabili- 
tated little  house.  When,  a  week  after  Schwitter 's 
visit  to  the  "Climbing  Rose,"  an  installment  van 
arrived  from  town  with  the  new  furniture,  Tillie 
moved  out  to  what  had  been  the  harness-room  of  the 
old  barn  and  there  established  herself. 

"I  am  not  leaving  you,"  she  told  him.  "I  don't 
257 


even  know  that  I  am  blaming  you.  But  I  am  not 
going  to  have  anything  to  do  with  it,  and  that's 
flat." 

So  it  happened  that  K.,  making  a  spring  pil- 
grimage to  see  Tillie,  stopped  astounded  in  the  road. 
The  weather  was  warm,  and  he  carried  his  Norfolk 
coat  over  his  arm.  The  little  house  was  bustling;  a 
dozen  automobiles  were  parked  in  the  barnyard. 
The  bar  was  crowded,  and  a  barkeeper  in  a  white 
coat  was  mixing  drinks  with  the  casual  indifference 
of  his  kind.  There  were  tables  under  the  trees  on  the 
lawn,  and  a  new  sign  on  the  gate. 

Even  Sch witter  bore  a  new  look  of  prosperity. 
Over  his  schooner  of  beer  K.  gathered  something  of 
the  story. 

"  I  'm  not  proud  of  it,  Mr.  Le  Moyne.  I  Ve  come 
to  do  a  good  many  things  the  last  year  or  so  that  I 
never  thought  I  would  do.  But  one  thing  leads  to  an- 
other. First  I  took  Tillie  away  from  her  good  posi- 
tion, and  after  that  nothing  went  right.  Then  there 
were  things  coming  on"  —  he  looked  at  K.  anx- 
iously—  "that  meant  more  expense.  I  would  be 
glad  if  you  would  n't  say  anything  about  it  at  Mrs. 
McKee's." 

"I'll  not  speak  of  it,  of  course." 

It  was  then,  when  K.  asked  for  Tillie,  that  Mr. 
Schwitter's  unhappiness  became  more  apparent. 

"She  would  n't  stand  for  it,"  he  said.  "She  moved 
out  the  day  I  furnished  the  rooms  upstairs  and  got 
the  piano." 

258 


"Do  you  mean  she  has  gone?" 

"As  far  as  the  barn.  She  would  n't  stay  in  the 
house.  I  —  I  '11  take  you  out  there,  if  you  would  like 
to  see  her." 

K.  shrewdly  surmised  that  Tillie  would  prefer  to 
see  him  alone,  under  the  circumstances. 

"I  guess  I  can  find  her,"  he  said,  and  rose  from 
the  little  table. 

"If  you  —  if  you  can  say  anything  to  help  me 
out,  sir,  I'd  appreciate  it.  Of  course,  she  under- 
stands how  I  am  driven.  But  —  especially  if  you 
would  tell  her  that  the  Street  doesn't  know  — " 

"I'll  do  all  I  can,"  K.  promised,  and  followed  the 
path  to  the  barn. 

Tillie  received  him  with  a  certain  dignity.  The 
little  harness-room  was  very  comfortable.  A  white 
iron  bed  in  a  corner,  a  flat  table  with  a  mirror  above 
it,  a  rocking-chair,  and  a  sewing-machine  furnished 
the  room. 

"I  would  n't  stand  for  it,"  she  said  simply;  "so 
here  I  am.  Come  in,  Mr.  Le  Moyne." 

There  being  but  one  chair,  she  sat  on  the  bed. 
The  room  was  littered  with  small  garments  in  the 
making.  She  made  no  attempt  to  conceal  them; 
rather,  she  pointed  to  them  with  pride. 

"  I  am  making  them  myself.  I  have  a  lot  of  time 
these  days.  He's  got  a  hired  girl  at  the  house.  It 
was  hard  enough  to  sew  at  first,  with  me  making 
two  right  sleeves  almost  every  time."  Then,  seeing 
his  kindly  eye  on  her:  "Well,  it's  happened,  Mr. 

259 


K 


Le  Moyne.  What  am  I  going  to  do?  What  am  I 
going  to  be?" 

"You're  going  to  be  a  very  good  mother,  Tillie." 

She  was  manifestly  in  need  of  cheering.  K.,  who 
also  needed  cheering  that  spring  day,  found  his  con- 
solation in  seeing  her  brighten  under  the  small  gossip 
of  the  Street.  The  deaf-and-dumb  book  agent  had 
taken  on  life  insurance  as  a  side  issue,  and  was  doing 
well ;  the  grocery  store  at  the  corner  was  going  to  be 
torn  down,  and  over  the  new  store  there  were  to  be 
apartments;  Reginald  had  been  miraculously  re- 
turned, and  was  building  a  new  nest  under  his  bu- 
reau ;  Harriet  Kennedy  had  been  to  Paris,  and  had 
^brought  home  six  French  words  and  a  new  figure. 

Outside  the  open  door  the  big  barn  loomed  cool 
and  shadowy,  full  of  empty  spaces  where  later  the 
hay  would  be  stored ;  anxious  mother  hens  led  their 
broods  about;  underneath  in  the  horse  stable  the 
restless  horses  pawed  in  their  stalls.  From  where 
he  sat,  Le  Moyne  could  see  only  the  round  breasts 
of  the  two  hills,  the  fresh  green  of  the  orchard,  the 
cows  in  a  meadow  beyond. 

Tillie  followed  his  eyes. 

"I  like  it  here,"  she  confessed.  "I've  had  more 
time  to  think  since  I  moved  out  than  I  ever  had  in 
my  life  before.  Them  hills  help.  When  the  noise  is 
worst  down  at  the  house,  I  look  at  the  hills  there 
and—" 

There  were  great  thoughts  in  her  mind  —  that 
the  hills  meant  God,  and  that  in  His  good  time  per- 

260 


haps  it  would  all  come  right.  But  she  was  inarticu- 
late. "The  hills  help  a  lot,"  she  repeated. 

K.  rose.  Tillie's  work-basket  lay  near  him.  He 
picked  up  one  of  the  little  garments.  In  his  big 
hands  it  looked  small,  absurd. 

"I  —  I  want  to  tell  you  something,  Tillie.  Don't 
count  on  it  too  much;  but  Mrs.  Schwitter  has  been 
failing  rapidly  for  the  last  month  or  two." 

Tillie  caught  his  arm. 

14 You've  seen  her?" 

"I  was  interested.  I  wanted  to  see  things  work 
out  right  for  you." 

All  the  color  had  faded  from  Tillie's  face. 

"You're  very  good  to  me,  Mr.  Le  Moyne,"  she 
said.  "  I  don't  wish  the  poor  soul  any  harm,  but  — 
oh,  my  God !  if  she 's  going,  let  it  be  before  the  next 
four  months  are  over." 

K.  had  fallen  into  the  habit,  after  his  long  walks, 
of  dropping  into  Christine's  little  parlor  for  a  chat 
before  he  went  upstairs.  Those  early  spring  days 
found  Harriet  Kennedy  busy  late  in  the  evenings, 
and,  save  for  Christine  and  K.,  the  house  was  prac- 
tically deserted. 

The  breach  between  Palmer  and  Christine  was 
steadily  widening.  She  was  too  proud  to  ask  him  to 
spend  more  of  his  evenings  with  her.  On  those  oc- 
casions when  he  voluntarily  stayed  at  home  with 
her,  he  was  so  discontented  that  he  drove  her  almost 
to  distraction.  Although  she  was  convinced  that  he 

261 


was  seeing  nothing  of  the  girl  who  had  been  with  him 
the  night  of  the  accident,  she  did  not  trust  him.  Not 
that  girl,  perhaps,  but  there  were  others.  There 
would  always  be  others. 

Into  Christine's  little  parlor,  then,  K.  turned,  the 
evening  after  he  had  seen  Tillie.  She  was  reading  by 
the  lamp,  and  the  door  into  the  hall  stood  open. 

"Come  in,"  she  said,  as  he  hesitated  in  the  door- 
way. 

"I  am  frightfully  dusty." 

"There's  a  brush  in  the  drawer  of  the  hat-rack  — 
although  I  don't  really  mind  how  you  look." 

The  little  room  always  cheered  K.  Its  warmth 
and  light  appealed  to  his  aesthetic  sense;  after  the 
bareness  of  his  bedroom,  it  spelled  luxury.  And 
perhaps,  to  be  entirely  frank,  there  was  more  than 
physical  comfort  and  satisfaction  in  the  evenings  he 
spent  in  Christine's  firelit  parlor.  He  was  entirely 
masculine,  and  her  evident  pleasure  in  his  society 
gratified  him.  He  had  fallen  into  a  way  of  thinking 
of  himself  as  a  sort  of  older  brother  to  all  the  world 
because  he  was  a  sort  of  older  brother  to  Sidney. 
But  Christine's  small  coquetries  were  not  lost  on 
him.  The  evenings  with  her  did  something  to  rein- 
state him  in  his  own  self-esteem.  It  was  subtle, 
psychological,  but  also  it  was  very  human. 

"Come  and  sit  down,"  said  Christine.  "Here's 
a  chair,  and  here  are  cigarettes  and  there  are 
matches.  Now!" 

But,  for  once,  K.  declined  the  chair.  He  stood  in 
262 


front  of  the  fireplace  and  looked  down  at  her,  his 
head  bent  slightly  to  one  side. 

"I  wonder  if  you  would  like  to  do  a  very  kind 
thing,"  he  said  unexpectedly. 

"Make  you  coffee?" 

"Something  much  more  trouble  and  not  so 
pleasant." 

Christine  glanced  up  at  him.  When  she  was  with 
him,  when  his  steady  eyes  looked  down  at  her,  small 
affectations  fell  away.  She  was  more  genuine  with 
K.  than  with  any  one  else,  even  herself. 

"Tell  me  what  it  is,  or  shall  I  promise  first?" 

"  I  want  you  to  promise  just  one  thing:  to  keep  a 
secret." 

"Yours?" 

Christine  was  not  over-intelligent,  perhaps,  but 
she  was  shrewd.  That  Le  Moyne's  past  held  a  secret 
she  had  felt  from  the  beginning.  She  sat  up  with  eager 
curiosity. 

"No,  not  mine.   Is  it  a  promise?" 

"Of  course." 

"I've  found  Tillie,  Christine.  I  want  you  to  go 
out  to  see  her." 

Christine's  red  lips  parted.  The  Street  did  not  go 
out  to  see  women  in  Tillie's  situation. 

"But,  K.!"  she  protested. 

"She  needs  another  woman  just  now.  She 's  going 
to  have  a  child,  Christine;  and  she  has  had  no  one 
to  talk  to  but  her  hus —  but  Mr.  Schwitter  and  my- 
self. She  is  depressed  and  not  very  well." 

263 


"But  what  shall  I  say  to  her?  I'd  really  rather 
not  go,  K.  Not,"  she  hastened  to  set  herself  right  in 
his  eyes  —  "not  that  I  feel  any  unwillingness  to  see 
her.  I  know  you  understand  that.  But  —  what  in 
the  world  shall  I  say  to  her?" 

"Say  what  your  own  kind  heart  prompts." 

It  had  been  rather  a  long  time  since  Christine  had. 
been  accused  of  having  a  kind  heart.  Not  that  she 
was  unkind,  but  in  all  her  self-centered  young  life 
there  had  been  little  call  on  her  sympathies.  Her 
eyes  clouded. 

"I  wish  I  were  as  good  as  you  think  I  am." 

There  was  a  little  silence  between  them.  Then  Le 
Moyne  spoke  briskly :  — 

"I'll  tell  you  how  to  get  there;  perhaps  I  would 
better  write  it." 

He  moved  over  to  Christine's  small  writing-table 
and,  seating  himself,  proceeded  to  write  out  the 
directions  for  reaching  Hillfoot. 

Behind  him,  Christine  had  taken  his  place  on  the 
hearth-rug  and  stood  watching  his  head  in  the  light 
©f  the  desk-lamp.  "What  a  strong,  quiet  face  it  is," 
she  thought.  Why  did  she  get  the  impression  of  such 
a  tremendous  reserve  power  in  this  man  who  was  a 
clerk,  and  a  clerk  only?  Behind  him  she  made  a 
quick,  unconscious  gesture  of  appeal,  both  hands 
out  for  an  instant.  She  dropped  them  guiltily  as  K. 
rose  with  the  paper  in  his  hand. 

" I've  drawn  a  sort  of  map  of  the  roads,"  he  be- 
gan. "You  see,  this — " 

264 


Christine  was  looking,  not  at  the  paper,  but  up  ttt 
him. 

"I  wonder  if  you  know,  K.,"  she  said,  "what 
a  lucky  woman  the  woman  will  be  who  marries 
you?" 

He  laughed  good-humoredly. 

"I  wonder  how  long  I  could  hypnotize  her  into 
thinking  that." 

He  was  still  holding  out  the  paper. 

"  I  Ve  had  time  to  do  a  little  thinking  lately,"  she 
said,  without  bitterness.  "Palmer  is  away  so  much 
now.  I've  been  looking  back,  wondering  if  I  ever 
thought  that  about  him.  I  don't  believe  I  ever  did. 
I  wonder — " 

She  checked  herself  abruptly  and  took  the  paper 
from  his  hand. 

"I'll  go  to  see  Tillie,  of  course,"  she  consented. 
"  It  is  like  you  to  have  found  her." 

She  sat  down.  Although  she  picked  up  the  book 
that  she  had  been  reading  with  the  evident  inten- 
tion of  discussing  it,  her  thoughts  were  still  on  Tillie, 
on  Palmer,  on  herself.  After  a  moment:  — 

"Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  how  terribly  mixed 
up  things  are?  Take  this  Street,  for  instance.  Can 
you  think  of  anybody  on  it  that  —  that  things  have 
gone  entirely  right  with?" 

"  It's  a  little  world  of  its  own,  of  course,"  said  K., 
"and  it  has  plenty  of  contact  points  with  life.  But 
wherever  one  finds  people,  many  or  few,  one  finds 
all  the  elements  that  make  up  life  —  joy  and  sorrow, 

265 


birth  and  death,  and  even  tragedy.   That's  rather 
trite,  isn't  it?" 

Christine  was  still  pursuing  her  thoughts. 

"Men  are  different,"  she  said.  "To  a  certain  ex- 
tent they  make  their  own  fates.  But  when  you  think 
of  the  women  on  the  Street,  —  Tillie,  Harriet  Ken- 
nedy, Sidney  Page,  myself,  even  Mrs.  Rosenfeld 
back  in  the  alley,  —  somebody  else  moulds  things 
for  us,  and  all  we  can  do  is  to  sit  back  and  suffer.  I 
am  beginning  to  think  the  world  is  a  terrible  place, 
K.  Why  do  people  so  often  marry  the  wrong  people? 
Why  can't  a  man  care  for  one  woman  and  only  one 
all  his  life?  Why  —  why  is  it  all  so  complicated?" 

"There  are  men  who  care  for  only  one  woman  all 
their  lives." 

"You're  that  sort,  are  n't  you?" 

"  I  don't  want  to  put  myself  on  any  pinnacle.  If 
I  cared  enough  for  a  woman  to  marry  her,  I  'd  hope 
to  —  But  we  are  being  very  tragic,  Christine." 

"I  feel  tragic.  There's  going  to  be  another  mis- 
take, K.,  unless  you  stop  it." 

He  tried  to  leaven  the  conversation  with  a  little 
fun. 

"If  you're  going  to  ask  me  to  interfere  between 
Mrs.  McKee  and  the  deaf-and-dumb  book  and  in- 
surance agent,  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  She 
can  both  speak  and  hear  enough  for  both  of  them." 

"I  mean  Sidney  and  Max  Wilson.  He's  mad 
about  her,  K.;  and,  because  she's  the  sort  she  is, 
he'll  probably  be  mad  about  her  all  his  life,  even  if 

266 


he  marries  her.  But  he'll  not  be  true  to  her;  I  know 
the  type  now." 

K.  leaned  back  with  a  flicker  of  pain  in  his 
eyes. 

"What  can  I  do  about  it?" 

Astute  as  he  was,  he  did  not  suspect  that  Chris- 
tine was  using  this  method  to  fathom  his  feeling  for 
Sidney.  Perhaps  she  hardly  knew  it  herself. 

"You  might  marry  her  yourself,  K." 

But  he  had  himself  in  hand  by  this  time,  and  she 
learned  nothing  from  either  his  voice  or  his  eyes. 

"  On  twenty  dollars  a  week?  And  without  so  much 
as  asking  her  consent?"  He  dropped  his  light  tone. 
"I'm  not  in  a  position  to  marry  anybody.  Even  if 
Sidney  cared  for  me,  which  she  does  n't,  of  course  —  " 

"Then  you  don't  intend  to  interfere?  You're  go- 
ing to  let  the  Street  see  another  failure?" 

"I  think  you  can  understand,"  said  K.  rather 
wearily,  "that  if  I  cared  less,  Christine,  it  would  be 
easier  to  interfere." 

After  all,  Christine  had  known  this,  or  surmised 
it,  for  weeks.  But  it  hurt  like  a  fresh  stab  in  an  old 
wound.  It  was  K.  who  spoke  again  after  a  pause:  — 

"The  deadly  hard  thing,  of  course,  is  to  sit  by  and 
see  things  happening  that  one  —  that  one  would 
naturally  try  to  prevent." 

"I  don't  believe  that  you  have  always  been  of 
those  who  only  stand  and  wait,"  said  Christine. 
"Sometime,  K.,  when  you  know  me  better  and  like 
me  better,  I  want  you  to  tell  me  about  it,  will  you?  " 

267 


"There's  very  little  to  tell.  I  held  a  trust.  When 
I  discovered  that  I  was  unfit  to  hold  that  trust  any 
longer,  I  quit.  That's  all." 

His  tone  of  finality  closed  the  discussion.  But 
Christine's  eyes  were  on  him  often  that  evening, 
puzzled,  rather  sad. 

They  talked  of  books,  of  music  —  Christine  played 
well  in  a  dashing  way.  K.  had  brought  her  soft, 
tender  little  things,  and  had  stood  over  her  until  her 
noisy  touch  became  gentle.  She  played  for  him  a 
little,  while  he  sat  back  in  the  big  chair  with  his 
hand  screening  his  eyes. 

When,  at  last,  he  rose  and  picked  up  his  cap,  it 
was  nine  o'clock. 

"I've  taken  your  whole  evening,"  he  said  re- 
morsefully. "Why  don't  you  tell  me  I  am  a  nuisance 
and  send  me  off?" 

Christine  was  still  at  the  piano,  her  hands  on  the 
keys.  She  spoke  without  looking  at  him:  — 

"You're  never  a  nuisance,  K.,  and  — " 

"You'll  go  out  to  see  Tillie,  won't  you?" 

"Yes.  But  I'll  not  go  under  false  pretenses.  I 
am  going  quite  frankly  because  you  want  me  to." 

Something  in  her  tone  caught  his  attention. 

"  I  forgot  to  tell  you,"  she  went  on.  "  Father  has 
given  Palmer  five  thousand  dollars.  He's  going  to 
buy  a  share  in  a  business." 

"That's  fine." 

"Possibly.  I  don't  believe  much  in  Palmer's 
business  ventures." 

268 


Her  flat  tone  still  held  him.  Underneath  it  he  di- 
vined strain  and  repression. 

41 1  hate  to  go  and  leave  yoii  alone,'*  he  said  at  last 
from  the  door.  "Have  you  any  idea  when  Palmer 
will  be  back?" 

"Not  the  slightest.  K.,  will  you  come  here  a  mo- 
ment? Stand  behind  me;  I  don't  want  to  see  you, 
and  I  want  to  tell  you  something." 

He  did  as  she  bade  him,  rather  puzzled. 

"Here  I  am." 

14 1  think  I  am  a  fool  for  saying  this.  Perhaps  I  am 
spoiling  the  only  chance  I  have  to  get  any  happiness 
out  of  life.  But  I  have  got  to  say  it.  It's  stronger 
than  I  am.  I  was  terribly  unhappy,  K.,  and  then 
you  came  into  my  life,  and  I  —  now  I  listen  for  your 
step  in  the  hall.  I  can't  be  a  hypocrite  any  longer, 
K." 

When  he  stood  behind  her,  silent  and  not  moving, 
she  turned  slowly  about  and  faced  him.  He  towered 
there  in  the  little  room,  grave  eyes  on  hers. 

14  It 's  a  long  time  since  I  have  had  a  woman  friend, 
Christine/'  he  said  soberly.  "Your  friendship  has 
meant  a  good  deal.  In  a  good  many  ways,  I  'd  not 
care  to  look  ahead  if  it  were  not  for  you.  I  value  our 
friendship  so  much  that  I  — " 

"That  you  don't  want  me  to  spoil  it,"  she  finished 
for  him.  "  I  know  you  don't  care  for  me,  K.,  not  the 
way  I  —  But  I  wanted  you  to  know.  It  does  n't  hurt 
a  good  man  to  know  such  a  thing.  And  it  —  is  n't 
going  to  stop  your  coming  here,  is  it?" 

269 


"Of  course  not,"  said  K.  heartily.  "But  to-mor- 
row, when  we  are  both  clear-headed,  we  will  talk 
this  over.  You  are  mistaken  about  this  thing,  Chris- 
tine ;  I  am  sure  of  that.  Things  have  not  been  going 
well,  and  just  because  I  am  always  around,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing,  you  think  things  that  are  n't 
really  so.  I'm  only  a  reaction,  Christine." 

He  tried  to  make  her  smile  up  at  him.  But  just 
then  she  could  not  smile. 

If  she  had  cried,  things  might  have  been  different 
for  every  one;  for  perhaps  K.  would  have  taken  her 
in  his  arms.  He  was  heart-hungry  enough,  those 
days,  for  anything.  And  perhaps,  too,  being  intui- 
tive, Christine  felt  this.  But  she  had  no  mind  to 
force  him  into  a  situation  against  his  will. 

"It  is  because  you  are  good,"  she  said,  and  held 
out  her  hand.  "Good-night." 

Le  Moyne  took  it  and  bent  over  and  kissed  it 
lightly.  There  was  in  the  kiss  all  that  he  could  not 
say  of  respect,  of  affection  and  understanding. 
I    "Good-night,  Christine,"  he  said,  and  went  into 
the  hall  and  upstairs. 

The  lamp  was  not  lighted  in  his  room,  but  the 
street  light  glowed  through  the  windows.  Once  again 
the  waving  fronds  of  the  ailanthus  tree  flung  ghostly 
shadows  on  the  walls.  There  was  a  faint  sweet  odor 
of  blossoms,  so  soon  to  become  rank  and  heavy. 

Over  the  floor  in  a  wild  zigzag  darted  a  strip  of 
white  paper  which  disappeared  under  the  bureau. 
Reginald  was  building  another  nest. 


"THEN   YOU   CAME    INTO  MY   LIFE' 


CHAPTER  XXI 

SIDNEY  went  into  the  operating-room  late  in  the 
spring  as  the  result  of  a  conversation  between  the 
younger  Wilson  and  the  Head. 

"When  are  you  going  to  put  my  protegee  into 
the  operating-room?"  asked  Wilson,  meeting  Miss 
Gregg  in  a  corridor  one  bright  spring  afternoon. 

"That  usually  comes  in  the  second  year,  Dr.  Wil- 


son." 


He  smiled  down  at  her.  "That  is  n't  a  rule,  is 
it?" 

"Not  exactly.  Miss  Page  is  very  young,  and  of 
course  there  are  other  girls  who  have  not  yet  had  the 
experience.  But,  if  you  make  the  request  — " 
•  "I  am  going  to  have  some  good  cases  soon.  I'll 
not  make  a  request,  of  course;  but,  if  you  see  fit,  it 
would  be  good  training  for  Miss  Page." 

Miss  Gregg  went  on,  knowing  perfectly  that  at  his 
next  operation  Dr.  Wilson  would  expect  Sidney  Page 
in  the  operating-room.  The  other  doctors  were  not 
so  exigent.  She  would  have  liked  to  have  all  the  staff 
old  and  settled,  like  Dr.  O'Hara  or  the  older  Wilson. 
These  young  men  came  in  and  tore  things  up. 

She  sighed  as  she  went  on.  There  were  so  many 
things  to  go  wrong.  The  butter  had  been  bad  —  she 
must  speak  to  the  matron.  The  sterilizer  in  the 
operating-room  was  out  of  order  —  that  meant  a 

271 


quarrel  with  the  chief  engineer.  Requisitions  were 
too  heavy  —  that  meant  going  around  to  the  wards 
and  suggesting  to  the  head  nurses  that  lead  pencils 
and  bandages  and  adhesive  plaster  and  safety-pins 
cost  money. 

It  was  particularly  inconvenient  to  move  Sidney 
just  then.  Carlotta  Harrison  was  off  duty,  ill.  She 
had  been  ailing  for  a  month,  and  now  she  was  down 
with  a  temperature.  As  the  Head  went  toward  Sid- 
ney's ward,  her  busy  mind  was  playing  her  nurses  in 
their  wards  like  pieces  on  a  checkerboard. 

Sidney  went  into  the  operating-room  that  after- 
noon. For  her  blue  uniform,  kerchief,  and  cap  she 
exchanged  the  hideous  operating-room  garb:  long, 
straight  white  gown  with  short  sleeves  and  mob-cap, 
gray- white  from  many  sterilizations.  But  the  ugly 
costume  seemed  to  emphasize  her  beauty,  as  the 
habit  of  a  nun  often  brings  out  the  placid  saintliness 
of  her  face. 

The  relationship  between  Sidney  and  Max  had 
reached  that  point  that  occurs  in  all  relationships 
between  men  and  women :  when  things  must  either 
go  forward  or  go  back,  but  cannot  remain  as  they 
are.  The  condition  had  existed  for  the  last  three 
months.  It  exasperated  the  man. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Wilson  could  not  go  ahead. 
The  situation  with  Carlotta  had  become  tense,  irri- 
tating. He  felt  that  she  stood  ready  to  block  any 
move  he  made.  He  would  not  go  back,  and  he  dared 
not  go  forward. 

272 


If  Sidney  was  puzzled,  she  kept  it  bravely  to  her- 
self. In  her  little  room  at  night,  with  the  door  care- 
fully locked,  she  tried  to  think  things  out.  There 
were  a  few  treasures  that  she  looked  over  regularly: 
a  dried  flower  from  the  Christmas  roses;  a  label  that 
he  had  pasted  playfully  on  the  back  of  her  hand  one 
day  after  the  rush  of  surgical  dressings  was  over  and 
which  said:  "5,  Take  once  and  forever." 

There  was  another  piece  of  paper  over  which  Sid- 
ney spent  much  time.  It  was  a  page  torn  out  of  an 
order  book,  and  it  read:  "Sigsbee  may  have  light 
diet;  Rosenfeld  massage."  Underneath  was  written, 
very  small :  — 

"  You  are  the  most  beautiful  person  in  the  world." 

Two  reasons  had  prompted  Wilson  to  request  to 
have  Sidney  in  the  operating-room.  He  wanted  her 
with  him,  and  he  wanted  her  to  see  him  at  work:  the 
age-old  instinct  of  the  male  to  have  his  woman  see 
him  at  his  best. 

He  was  in  high  spirits  that  first  day  of  Sidney's 
operating-room  experience.  For  the  time  at  least, 
Carlotta  was  out  of  the  way.  Her  somber  eyes  no 
longer  watched  him.  Once  he  looked  up  from  his 
work  and  glanced  at  Sidney  where  she  stood  at 
strained  attention. 

"Feeling  faint?"  he  said. 

She  colored  under  the  eyes  that  were  turned  on 
her. 

"No,  Dr.  Wilson." 

273 


"A  great  many  of  them  faint  on  the  first  day.  We 
sometimes  have  them  lying  all  over  the  floor. " 

He  challenged  Miss  Gregg  with  his  eyes,  and  she 
reproved  him  with  a  shake  of  her  head,  as  she  might 
a  bad  boy. 

One  way  and  another,  he  managed  to  turn  the 
attention  of  the  operating-room  to  Sidney  several 
times.  It  suited  his  whim,  and  it  did  more  than  that : 
it  gave  him  a  chance  to  speak  to  her  in  his  teasing 
way. 

Sidney  came  through  the  operation  as  if  she  had 
been  through  fire  —  taut  as  a  string,  rather  pale, 
but  undaunted.  But  when  the  last  case  had  been 
taken  out,  Max  dropped  his  bantering  manner.  The 
internes  were  looking  over  instruments;  the  nurses 
were  busy  on  the  hundred  and  one  tasks  of  clearing 
up ;  so  he  had  a  chance  for  a  word  with  her  alone. 

"  I  am  proud  of  you,  Sidney;  you  came  through  it 
like  a  soldier." 

"You  made  it  very  hard  for  me." 

A  nurse  was  coming  toward  him;  he  had  only  a 
moment. 

"I  shall  leave  a  note  in  the  mail-box/'  he 
said  quickly,  and  proceeded  with  the  scrubbing 
of  his  hands  which  signified  the  end  of  the  day's 
work. 

The  operations  had  lasted  until  late  in  the  after- 
noon. The  night  nurses  had  taken  up  their  stations; 
prayers  were  over.  The  internes  were  gathered  in 
the  smoking-room,  threshing  over  the  day's  work,  as 

274 


was  their  custom.   When  Sidney  was  free,  she  went 
to  the  office  for  the  note.   It  was  very  brief:  — 

I  have  something  I  want  to  say  to  you,  dear.  I 
think  you  know  what  it  is.  I  never  see  you  alone  at 
home  any  more.  If  you  can  get  off  for  an  hour,  won't 
you  take  the  trolley  to  the  end  of  Division  Street? 
I'll  be  there  with  the  car  at  eight-thirty,  and  I 
promise  to  have  you  back  by  ten  o'clock. 

MAX. 

The  office  was  empty.  No  one  saw  her  as  she 
stood  by  the  mail-box.  The  ticking  of  the  office 
clock,  the  heavy  rumble  of  a  dray  outside,  the  roll  of 
the  ambulance  as  it  went  out  through  the  gateway, 
and  in  her  hand  the  realization  of  what  she  had 
never  confessed  as  a  hope,  even  to  herself !  He,  the 
great  one,  was  going  to  stoop  to  her.  It  had  been  in 
his  eyes  that  afternoon;  it  was  there,  in  his  letter, 
now. 

It  was  eight  by  the  office  clock.  To  get  out  of  her 
uniform  and  into  street  clothing,  fifteen  minutes ;  on 
the  trolley,  another  fifteen.  She  would  need  to  hurry. 

But  she  did  not  meet  him,  after  all.  Miss  Ward- 
well  met  her  in  the  upper  hall. 

" Did  you  get  my  message?"  she  asked  anxiously. 

" What  message?" 

"Miss  Harrison  wants  to  see  you.  She  has  been 
moved  to  a  private  room." 

Sidney  glanced  at  K.'s  little  watch. 

275 


"Must  she  see  me  to-night?" 

"She  has  been  waiting  for  hours  —  ever  since  you 
went  to  the  operating-room.'* 

Sidney  sighed,  but  she  went  to  Carlotta  at  once. 
The  girl's  condition  was  puzzling  the  staff.  There 
was  talk  of  "T.  R."  —  which  is  hospital  for  "ty- 
phoid restrictions."  But  T.  R.  has  apathy,  gener- 
ally, and  Carlotta  was  not  apathetic.  Sidney  found 
her  tossing  restlessly  on  her  high  white  bed,  and  put 
her  cool  hand  over  Carlotta' s  hot  one. 

"Did  you  send  for  me?" 

"Hours  ago."  Then,  seeing  her  operating-room 
uniform:  "You've  been  there,  have  you?" 

"Is  there  anything  I  can  do,  Carlotta?" 

Excitement  had  dyed  Sidney's  cheeks  with  color 
and  made  her  eyes  luminous.  The  girl  in  the  bed 
eyed  her,  and  then  abruptly  drew  her  hand  away. 

"Were  you  going  out?" 

"Yes;  but  not  right  away." 

"I'll  not  keep  you  if  you  have  an  engagement." 

"The  engagement  will  have  to  wait.  I'm  sorry 
you  're  ill.  If  you  would  like  me  to  stay  with  you  to- 
night— " 

Carlotta  shook  her  head  on  her  pillow. 

" Mercy,  no ! "  she  said  irritably.  " I'm  only  worn 
out.  I  need  a  rest.  Are  you  going  home  to-night?" 

"No,"  Sidney  admitted,  and  flushed. 

Nothing  escaped  Carlotta's  eyes  —  the  younger 
girl's  radiance,  her  confusion,  even  her  operating- 
room  uniform  and  what  it  signified.  How  she  hated 

276 


her,  with  her  youth  and  freshness,  her  wide  eyes,  her 
soft  red  lips!  And  this  engagement  —  she  had  the 
uncanny  divination  of  fury. 

"  I  was  going  to  ask  you  to  do  something  for  me," 
she  said  shortly;  "but  I've  changed  my  mind  about 
it.  Go  on  and  keep  your  engagement." 

To  end  the  interview,  she  turned  over  and  lay 
with  her  face  to  the  wall.  Sidney  stood  waiting  un- 
certainly. All  her  training  had  been  to  ignore  the  ir- 
ritability of  the  sick,  and  Carlotta  was  very  ill ;  she 
could  see  that. 

"Just  remember  that  I  am  ready  to  do  anything 
I  can,  Carlotta,"  she  said.  "Nothing  will  —  will  be 
a  trouble." 

She  waited  a  moment,  but,  receiving  no  acknowl- 
edgement of  her  offer,  she  turned  slowly  and  went 
toward  the  door. 

"Sidney!" 

She  went  back  to  the  bed. 

"Yes.   Don't  sit  up,  Carlotta.  What  is  it?" 

"I'm  frightened!" 

"You're  feverish  and  nervous.  There's  nothing 
to  be  frightened  about." 

"If  it's  typhoid,  I'm  gone." 

"That's  childish.  Of  course  you're  not  gone,  or 
anything  like  it.  Besides,  it 's  probably  not  typhoid." 

"  I'm  afraid  to  sleep.  I  doze  for  a  little,  and  when 
I  waken  there  are  people  in  the  room.  They  stand 
around  the  bed  and  talk  about  me." 

Sidney's  precious  minutes  were  flying;  but  Car- 
277 


lotta  had  gone  into  a  paroxysm  of  terror,  holding  to 
Sidney's  hand  and  begging  not  to  be  left  alone. 

"  I'm  too  young  to  die,"  she  would  whimper.  And 
in  the  next  breath:  "  I  want  to  die  —  I  don't  want  to 
live!" 

The  hands  of  the  little  watch  pointed  to  eight- 
thirty  when  at  last  she  lay  quiet,  with  closed  eyes. 
Sidney,  tiptoeing  to  the  door,  was  brought  up  short 
by  her  name  again,  this  time  in  a  more  normal 
voice :  — 

"  Sidney." 

"Yes,  dear." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right  and  I  'm  going  to  get  over 
this." 

"Certainly  you  are.  Your  nerves  are  playing 
tricks  with  you  to-night." 

"I'll  tell  you  now  why  I  sent  for  you." 

"I'm  listening." 

"If  —  if  I  get  very  bad,  —  you  know  what  I 
mean,  —  will  you  promise  to  do  exactly  what  I  tell 
you?" 

"I  promise,  absolutely." 

"My  trunk  key  is  in  my  pocket-book.  There  is  a 
letter  in  the  tray  —  just  a  name,  no  address  on  it. 
Promise  to  see  that  it  is  not  delivered ;  that  it  is  de- 
stroyed without  being  read." 

Sidney  promised  promptly;  and,  because  it  was 
too  late  now  for  her  meeting  with  Wilson,  for  the 
next  hour  she  devoted  herself  to  making  Carlotta 
comfortable.  So  long  as  she  was  busy,  a  sort  of  ex- 

278 


altation  of  service  upheld  her.  But  when  at  last  the 
night  assistant  came  to  sit  with  the  sick  girl,  and  Sid- 
ney was  free,  all  the  life  faded  from  her  face.  He  had 
waited  for  her  and  she  had  not  come.  Would  he  un- 
derstand? Would  he  ask  her  to  meet  him  again? 
Perhaps,  after  all,  his  question  had  not  been  what 
she  had  thought. 

She  went  miserably  to  bed.  K.'s  little  watch 
ticked  under  her  pillow.  Her  stiff  cap  moved  in  the 
breeze  as  it  swung  from  the  corner  of  her  mirror. 
Under  her  window  passed  and  repassed  the  night  life 
of  the  city  —  taxicabs,  stealthy  painted  women, 
tired  office-cleaners  trudging  home  at  midnight,  a 
city  patrol-wagon  which  rolled  in  through  the  gates 
to  the  hospital's  always  open  door.  When  she  could 
not  sleep,  she  got  up  and  padded  to  the  window  in 
bare  feet.  The  light  from  a  passing  machine  showed 
a  youthful  figure  that  looked  like  Joe  Drummond. 

Life,  that  had  always  seemed  so  simple,  was  grow- 
ing very  complicated  for  Sidney:  Joe  and  K.,  Palmer 
and  Christine,  Johnny  Rosenfeld,  Carlotta  —  either 
lonely  or  tragic,  all  of  them,  or  both.  Life  in  the  raw. 

Toward  morning  Carlotta  wakened.  The  night 
assistant  was  still  there.  It  had  been  a  quiet  night, 
and  she  was  asleep  in  her  chair.  To  save  her  cap  she 
had  taken  it  off,  and  early  streaks  of  silver  showed  in 
her  hair. 

Carlotta  roused  her  ruthlessly. 

"  I  want  something  from  my  trunk,"  she  said. 

The  assistant  wakened  reluctantly,  and  looked 
279 


at  her  watch.     Almost  morning.   She  yawned  and 
pinned  on  her  cap. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,"  she  protested.  "You  don't 
want  me  to  go  to  the  trunk-room  at  this  hour!" 

"  I  can  go  myself,"  said  Carlotta,  and  put  her  feet 
out  of  bed. 

"What  is  it  you  want?" 

"A  letter  on  the  top  tray.  If  I  wait  my  tempera- 
ture will  go  up  and  I  can't  think." 

"Shall  I  mail  it  for  you?" 

"Bring  it  here,"  said  Carlotta  shortly.  "I  want 
to  destroy  it." 

The  young  woman  went  without  haste,  to  show 
that  a  night  assistant  may  do  such  things  out  of 
friendship,  but  not  because  she  must.  She  stopped 
at  the  desk  where  the  night  nurse  in  charge  of  the 
rooms  on  that  floor  was  filling  out  records. 

"Give  me  twelve  private  patients  to  look  after 
instead  of  one  nurse  like  Carlotta  Harrison!"  she 
complained.  "I've  got  to  go  to  the  trunk-room 
for  her  at  this  hour,  and  it  next  door  to  the  mor- 
tuary!" 

As  the  first  rays  of  the  summer  sun  came  through 
the  window,  shadowing  the  fire-escape  like  a  lattice 
on  the  wall  of  the  little  gray- walled  room,  Carlotta 
sat  up  in  her  bed  and  lighted  the  candle  on  the  stand. 
The  night  assistant,  who  dreamed  sometimes  of  fire, 
stood  nervously  by. 

"Why  don't  you  let  me  do  it?"  she  asked  irri- 
tably. 

280 


Carlotta  did  not  reply  at  once.  The  candle  was 
in  her  hand,  and  she  was  staring  at  the  letter. 

"  Because  I  want  to  do  it  myself,"  she  said  at  last, 
and  thrust  the  envelope  into  the  flame.  It  burned 
slowly,  at  first  a  thin  blue  flame  tipped  with  yellow, 
then,  eating  its  way  with  a  small  fine  crackling,  a 
widening,  destroying  blaze  that  left  behind  it  black 
ash  and  destruction.  The  acrid  odor  of  burning 
filled  the  room.  Not  until  it  was  consumed,  and  the 
black  ash  fell  into  the  saucer  of  the  candlestick,  did 
Carlotta  speak  again.  Then:  — 

"  If  every  fool  of  a  woman  who  wrote  a  letter  burnt 
it,  there  would  be  less  trouble  in  the  world,"  she  said, 
and  lay  back  among  her  pillows. 

The  assistant  said  nothing.  She  was  sleepy  and 
irritated,  and  she  had  crushed  her  best  cap  by  letting 
the  lid  of  Carlotta's  trunk  fall  on  her.  She  went  out 
of  the  room  with  disapproval  in  every  line  cr  ne'r 
back. 

"She  burned  it,"  she  informed  the  night  nurse  at 
her  desk.  "  A  letter  to  a  man  —  one  of  her  suitors,  I 
suppose.  The  name  was  K.  Le  Moyne." 

The  deepening  and  broadening  of  Sidney's  char- 
acter had  been  very  noticeable  in  the  last  few  months. 
She  had  gained  in  decision  without  becoming  hard ; 
had  learned  to  see  things  as  they  are,  not  through 
the  rose  mist  of  early  girlhood;  and,  far  from  being 
daunted,  had  developed  a  philosophy  that  had  for  its 
basis  God  in  His  heaven  and  all  well  with  the  world. 

281 


But  her  new  theory  of  acceptance  did  not  com- 
prehend everything.  She  was  in  a  state  of  wild  re- 
volt, for  instance,  as  to  Johnny  Rosenfeld,  and  more 
remotely  but  not  less  deeply  concerned  over  Grace 
Irving.  Soon  she  was  to  learn  of  Tillie's  predicament, 
and  to  take  up  the  cudgels  valiantly  for  her. 

But  her  revolt  was  to  be  for  herself  too.  On  the 
day  after  her  failure  to  keep  her  appointment  with 
Wilson  she  had  her  half-holiday.  No  word  had  come 
from  him,  and  when,  after  a  restless  night,  she  went 
to  her  new  station  in  the  operating-room,  it  was 
to  learn  that  he  had  been  called  out  of  the  city  in 
consultation  and  would  not  operate  that  day.  O'Hara 
would  take  advantage  of  the  free  afternoon  to  run 
in  some  odds  and  ends  of  cases. 

The  operating-room  made  gauze  that  morning, 
arld  small  packets  of  tampons:  absorbent  cotton 
*-ove :ed  with  sterilized  gauze,  and  fastened  together 
— ^ twelve,  by  careful  count,  in  each  bundle. 

Miss  Grange,  who  had  been  kind  to  Sidney  in  her 
probation  months,  taught  her  the  method. 

"Used  instead  of  sponges,"  she  explained.  "If 
you  noticed  yesterday,  they  were  counted  before 
and  after  each  operation.  One  of  these  missing  is 
worse  than  a  bank  clerk  out  a  dollar  at  the  end  of  the 
day.  There's  no  closing  up  until  it's  found!" 

Sidney  eyed  the  small  packet  before  her  anxiously. 

"What  a  hideous  responsibility!"  she  said. 

From  that  time  on  she  handled  the  small  gauze 
sponges  almost  reverently. 

282 


The  operating-room  —  all  glass,  white  enamel, 
and  shining  nickel-plate  —  first  frightened,  then 
thrilled  her.  It  was  as  if,  having  loved  a  great  actor, 
she  now  trod  the  enchanted  boards  on  which  he 
achieved  his  triumphs.  She  was  glad  that  it  was  her 
afternoon  off,  and  that  she  would  not  see  some  lesser 
star  —  O'Hara,  to  wit  —  usurping  his  place. 

But  Max  had  not  sent  her  any  word.  That  hurt. 
He  must  have  known  that  she  had  been  delayed. 

The  operating-room  was  a  hive  of  industry,  and 
tongues  kept  pace  with  fingers.  The  hospital  was 
a  world,  like  the  Street.  The  nurses  had  come  from 
many  places,  and,  like  cloistered  nuns,  seemed  to 
have  left  the  other  world  behind.  A  new  President 
of  the  country  was  less  real  than  a  new  interne.  The 
country  might  wash  its  soiled  linen  in  public;  what 
was  that  compared  with  enough  sheets  and  towels 
for  the  wards?  Big  buildings  were  going  up  in  the 
city.  Ah !  but  the  hospital  took  cognizance  of  that, 
gathering  as  it  did  a  toll  from  each  new  story  added. 
What  news  of  the  world  came  in  through  the  great 
doors  was  translated  at  once  into  hospital  terms. 
What  the  city  forgot  the  hospital  remembered.  It 
took  up  life  where  the  town  left  it  at  its  gates,  and 
carried  it  on  or  saw  it  ended,  as  the  case  might  be.  So 
these  young  women  knew  the  ending  of  many  stories, 
the  beginning  of  some ;  but  of  none  did  they  know  both 
the  first  and  last,  the  beginning  and  the  end. 
&'  By  many  small  kindnesses  Sidney  had  made  her- 
self popular.  And  there  was  more  to  it  than  that. 

283 


She  never  shirked.  The  other  girls  had  the  respect 
for  her  of  one  honest  worker  for  another.  The  epi- 
sode that  had  caused  her  suspension  seemed  en- 
tirely forgotten.  They  showed  her  carefully  what 
she  was  to  do;  and,  because  she  must  know  the 
"why"  of  everything,  they  explained  as  best  they 
could. 

It  was  while  she  was  standing  by  the  great  steril- 
izer that  she  heard,  through  an  open  door,  part  of 
a  conversation  that  sent  her  through  the  day  with 
her  world  in  revolt. 

The  talkers  were  putting  the  anaesthetizing-room 
in  readiness  for  the  afternoon.  Sidney,  waiting  for 
the  time  to  open  the  sterilizer,  was  busy,  for  the 
first  time  in  her  hurried  morning,  with  her  own 
thoughts.  Because  she  was  very  human,  there  was  a 
little  exultation  in  her  mind.  What  would  these  girls 
say  when  they  learned  of  how  things  stood  between 
her  and  their  hero  —  that,  out  of  all  his  world  of 
society  and  clubs  and  beautiful  women,  he  was 
going  to  choose  her? 

Not  shameful,  this:  the  honest  pride  of  a  woman 
in  being  chosen  from  many. 

The  voices  werepvery  clear. 

"Typhoid!  Of  course  not.  She's  eating  her  heart 
out." 

"Do  you  think  he  has  really  broken  with  her?" 

"Probably  not.  She  knows  it's  coming;  that's 
all." 

"Sometimes  I  have  wondered  — " 
284 


"So  have  others.  She  oughtn't  to  be  here,  of 
course.  But  among  so  many  there  is  bound  to  be 
one  now  and  then  who  —  who  is  n't  quite  — " 

She  hesitated,  at  a  loss  for  a  word. 

"  Did  you  —  did  you  ever  think  over  that  trouble 
with  Miss  Page  about  the  medicines?  That  would 
have  been  easy,  and  like  her." 

"She  hates  Miss  Page,  of  course,  but  I  hardly 
think  —  If  that's  true,  it  was  nearly  murder." 

There  were  two  voices,  a  young  one,  full  of  soft 
Southern  inflections,  and  an  older  voice,  a  trifle 
hard,  as  from  disillusion. 

They  were  working  as  they  talked.  Sidney  could 
hear  the  clatter  of  bottles  on  the  tray,  the  scraping 
of  a  moved  table. 

"He  was  crazy  about  her  last  fall." 

"Miss  Page?"  (The  younger  voice,  with  a  thrill 
in  it.) 

"Carlotta.   Of  course  this  is  confidential." 

"Surely." 

"  I  saw  her  with  him  in  his  car  one  evening.  And 
on  her  vacation  last  summer  —  " 

The  voices  dropped  to  a  whisper.  Sidney,  stand- 
ing cold  and  white  by  the  sterilizer,  put  out  a  hand 
to  steady  herself.  So  that  was  it !  No  wonder  Car- 
lotta had  hated  her.  And  those  whispering  voices! 
What  were  they  saying?  How  hateful  life  was,  and 
men  and  women.  Must  there  always  be  something 
hideous  in  the  background  ?  Until  now  she  had  only 
seen  life.  Now  she  felt  its  hot  breath  on  her  cheek. 

285 


She  was  steady  enough  in  a  moment,  cool  and 
calm,  moving  about  her  work  with  ice-cold  hands 
and  slightly  narrowed  eyes.  To  a  sort  of  physical 
nausea  was  succeeding  anger,  a  blind  fury  of  injured 
pride.  He  had  been  in  love  with  Carlotta  and  had 
tired  of  her.  He  was  bringing  her  his  warmed-over 
emotions.  She  remembered  the  bitterness  of  her 
month's  exile,  and  its  probable  cause.  Max  had 
stood  by  her  then.  Well  he  might,  if  he  suspected 
the  truth. 

For  just  a  moment  she  had  an  illuminating  flash 
of  Wilson  as  he  really  was,  selfish  and  self-indulgent, 
just  a  trifle  too  carefully  dressed,  daring  as  to  eye 
and  speech,  with  a  carefully  calculated  daring, 
frankly  pleasure-loving.  She  put  her  hands  over 
her  eyes. 

The  voices  in  the  next  room  had  risen  above  their 
whisper. 

"Genius  has  privileges,  of  course,"  said  the  older 
voice.  "  He  is  a  very  great  surgeon.  To-morrow  he 
is  to  do  the  Edwardes  operation  again.  I  am  glad  I 
am  to  see  him  do  it." 

Sidney  still  held  her  hands  over  her  eyes.  He  was 
a  great  surgeon:  in  his  hands  he  held  the  keys  of 
life  and  death.  And  perhaps  he  had  never  cared  for 
Carlotta:  she  might  have  thrown  herself  at  him.  He 
was  a  man,  at  the  mercy  of  any  scheming  woman. 

She  tried  to  summon  his  image  to  her  aid.  But 
a  curious  thing  happened.  She  could  not  visualize 
him.  Instead,  there  came,  clear  and  distinct,  a 

286 


picture  of  K.  Le  Moyne  in  the  hall  of  the  little  house, 
reaching  one  of  his  long  arms  to  the  chandelier  over 
his  head  and  looking  up  at  her  as  she  stood  on  the 
stairs. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

"My    God,    Sidney,    I'm    asking  you   to    marry 
me!" 

"I  —  I  know  that.  I  am  asking  you  something 
else,  Max." 

"I  have  never  been  in  love  with  her." 

His  voice  was  sulky.  He  had  drawn  the  car  close 
to  a  bank,  and  they  were  sitting  in  the  shade,  on 
the  grass.  It  was  the  Sunday  afternoon  after  Sid- 
ney's experience  in  the  operating-room. 

"You  took  her  out,  Max,  did  n't  you?" 

"A  few  times,  yes.  She  seemed  to  have  no  friends. 
I  was  sorry  for  her." 

"That  was  all?" 

"Absolutely.  Good  Heavens,  you've  put  me 
through  a  catechism  in  the  last  ten  minutes!" 

"If  my  father  were  living,  or  even  mother,  I  - 
one  of  them  would  have  done  this  for  me,  Max.  I  'm 
sorry  I  had  to.   I  've  been  very  wretched  for  several 
days." 

It  was  the  first  encouragement  she  had  given 
him.  There  was  no  coquetry  about  her  aloofness. 
It  was  only  that  her  faith  in  him  had  had  a  shock 
and  was  slow  of  reviving. 

"You  are  very,  very  lovely,  Sidney.  I  wonder 
if  you  have  any  idea  what  you  mean  to  me?" 

"You  meant  a  great  deal  to  me,  too,"  she  said 
288 


frankly,  "until  a  few  days  ago.  I  thought  you  were 
the  greatest  man  I  had  ever  known,  and  the  best. 
And  then —  I  think  I  'd  better  tell  you  what  I  over- 
heard. I  did  n't  try  to  hear.  It  just  happened  that 
way." 

He  listened  doggedly  to  her  account  of  the  hos- 
pital gossip,  doggedly  and  with  a  sinking  sense  of 
fear,  not  of  the  talk,  but  of  Carlotta  herself.  Usu- 
ally one  might  count  on  the  woman's  silence,  her 
instinct  for  self-protection.  But  Carlotta  was  dif- 
ferent. Damn  the  girl,  anyhow!  She  had  known 
from  the  start  that  the  affair  was  a  temporary  one ; 
he  had  never  pretended  anything  else. 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment  after  Sidney 
finished.  Then:  — 

"You  are  not  a  child  any  longer,  Sidney.  You 
have  learned  a  great  deal  in  this  last  year.  One  of  the 
things  you  know  is  that  almost  every  man  has  small 
affairs,  many  of  them  sometimes,  before  he  finds  the 
woman  he  wants  to  marry.  When  he  finds  her,  the 
others  are  all  off  —  there's  nothing  to  them.  It's 
the  real  thing  then,  instead  of  the  sham." 

"Palmer  was  very  much  in  love  with  Christine, 
and  yet  — " 

"Palmer  is  a  cad." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  think  I'm  making  terms. 
I  'm  not.  But  if  this  thing  went  on,  and  I  found  out 
afterward  that  you  —  that  there  was  any  one  else, 
it  would  kill  me." 

"Then  you  care,  after  all!" 
289 


There  was  something  boyish  in  his  triumph,  in  the 
very  gesture  with  which  he  held  out  his  arms,  like  a 
child  who  has  escaped  a  whipping.  He  stood  up  and, 
catching  her  hands,  drew  her  to  her  feet.  "You 
love  me,  dear." 

"I'm  afraid  I  do,  Max." 

"Then  I'm  yours,  and  only  yours,  if  you  want 
me,"  he  said,  and  took  her  in  his  arms. 

He  was  riotously  happy,  must  hold  her  off  for 
the  joy  of  drawing  her  to  him  again,  must  pull  off 
her  gloves  and  kiss  her  soft  bare  palms. 

"  I  love  you,  love  you!"  he  cried,  and  bent  down 
to  bury  his  face  in  the  warm  hollow  of  her  neck. 

Sidney  glowed  under  his  caresses  —  was  rather 
startled  at  his  passion,  a  little  ashamed. 

"Tell  me  you  love  me  a  little  bit.   Say  it." 

"I  love  you,"  said  Sidney,  and  flushed  scarlet. 

But  even  in  his  arms,  with  the  warm  sunlight  on 
his  radiant  face,  with  his  lips  to  her  ear,  whispering 
the  divine  absurdities  of  passion,  in  the  back  of  her 
obstinate  little  head  was  the  thought  that,  while 
she  had  given  him  her  first  embrace,  he  had  held 
other  women  in  his  arms.  It  made  her  passive,  pre- 
vented her  complete  surrender. 

And  after  a  time  he  resented  it.  "You  are  only 
letting  me  love  you,"  he  complained.  "  I  don't  be- 
lieve you  care,  after  all." 

He  freed  her,  took  a  step  back  from  her. 

"I  am  afraid  I  am  jealous,"  she  said  simply.  "I 
keep  thinking  of  —  of  Carlotta." 

290 


"Will  it  help  any  if  I  swear  that  that  is  off  ab- 
solutely?" 

"Don't  be  absurd.  It  is  enough  to  have  you  say 
so." 

But  he  insisted  on  swearing,  standing  with  one 
hand  upraised,  his  eyes  on  her.  The  Sunday  land- 
scape was  very  still,  save  for  the  hum  of  busy  insect 
life.  A  mile  or  so  away,  at  the  foot  of  two  hills, 
lay  a  white  farmhouse  with  its  barn  and  outbuild- 
ings. In  a  small  room  in  the  barn  a  woman  sat ;  and 
because  it  was  Sunday,  and  she  could  not  sew,  she 
read  her  Bible. 

" — and  that  after  this  there  will  be  only  one 
woman  for  me,"  finished  Max,  and  dropped  his 
hand.  He  bent  over  and  kissed  Sidney  on  the 
lips. 

At  the  white  farmhouse,  a  little  man  stood  in  the 
doorway  and  surveyed  the  road  with  eyes  shaded  by 
a  shirt-sleeved  arm.  Behind  him,  in  a  darkened 
room,  a  barkeeper  was  wiping  the  bar  with  a  clean 
cloth. 

"  I  guess  I  '11  go  and  get  my  coat  on,  Bill,"  said  the 
little  man  heavily.  "They're  starting  to  come  now. 
I  see  a  machine  about  a  mile  down  the  road." 

Sidney  broke  the  news  of  her  engagement  to  K. 
herself,  the  evening  of  the  same  day.  The  little 
house  was  quiet  when  she  got  out  of  the  car  at  the 
door.  Harriet  was  asleep  on  the  couch  at  the  foot  of 
her  bed,  and  Christine's  rooms  were  empty.  She 

291 


found  Katie  on  the  back  porch,  mountains  of  Sun- 
day newspapers  piled  around  her. 

"I'd  about  give  you  up/'  said  Katie.  "I  was 
thinking,  rather  than  see  your  ice-cream  that 's  left 
from  dinner  melt  and  go  to  waste,  I  'd  take  it  around 
to  the  Rosenfelds." 

"Please  take  it  to  them.  I'd  really  rather  they 
had  it." 

She  stood  in  front  of  Katie,  drawing  off  her  gloves. 

"Aunt  Harriet's  asleep.  Is  —  is  Mr.  Le  Moyne 
around?" 

"You're  gettin*  prettier  every  day,  Miss  Sidney. 
Is  that  the  blue  suit  Miss  Harriet  said  she  made  for 
you?  It's  right  stylish.  I  'd  like  to  see  the  back." 

Sidney  obediently  turned,  and  Katie  admired. 

"When  I  think  how  things  have  turned  out!"  she 
reflected.  "You  in  a  hospital,  doing  God  knows 
what  for  all  sorts  of  people,  and  Miss  Harriet  mak- 
ing a  suit  like  that  and  asking  a  hundred  dollars  for 
it,  and  that  tony  that  a  person  does  n't  dare  to  speak 
to  her  when  she's  in  the  dining-room.  And  your 
poor  ma  .  .  .  well,  it's  all  in  a  lifetime!  No;  Mr.  K.'s 
not  here.  He  and  Mrs.  Howe  are  gallivanting  around 
together." 

"Katie!" 

"Well,  that's  what  I  call  it.  I'm  not  blind.  Don't 
I  hear  her  dressing  up  about  four  o'clock  every  after- 
noon, and,  when  she's  all  ready,  sittin*  in  the  parlor 
with  the  door  open,  and  a  book  on  her  knee,  as  if 
she'd  been  reading  all  afternoon?  If  he  doesn't 

292 


stop,  she's  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  calling  up  to  him, 
'K.,'  she  says,  'K.,  I'm  waiting  to  ask  you  some- 
thing!' or,  'K.,  wouldn't  you  like  a  cup  of  tea?' 
She 's  always  feedin'  him  tea  and  cake,  so  that  when 
he  comes  to  table  he  won't  eat  honest  victuals." 

Sidney  had  paused  with  one  glove  half  off.  Katie's 
tone  carried  conviction.  Was  life  making  another  of 
its  queer  errors,  and  were  Christine  and  K.  in  love 
with  each  other?  K.  had  always  been  her  friend,  her 
confidant.  To  give  him  up  to  Christine  —  she  shook 
herself  impatiently.  What  had  come  over  her?  Why 
not  be  glad  that  he  had  some  sort  of  companionship? 

She  went  upstairs  to  the  room  that  had  been  her 
mother's,  and  took  off  her  hat.  She  wanted  to  be 
alone,  to  realize  what  had  happened  to  her.  She  did 
not  belong  to  herself  any  more.  It  gave  her  an  odd, 
lost  feeling.  She  was  going  to  be  married  —  not 
very  soon,  but  ultimately.  A  year  ago  her  half 
promise  to  Joe  had  gratified  her  sense  of  romance. 
She  was  loved,  and  she  had  thrilled  to  it. 

But  this  was  different.  Marriage,  that  had  been 
but  a  vision  then,  loomed  large,  almost  menacing. 
She  had  learned  the  law  of  compensation:  that  for 
every  joy  one  pays  in  suffering.  Women  who  mar- 
ried went  down  into  the  valley  of  death  for  their 
children.  One  must  love  and  be  loved  very  tenderly 
to  pay  for  that.  The  scale  must  balance. 

And  there  were  other  things.   Women  grew  old, 

and  age  was  not  always  lovely.  This  very  maternity 

-  was  it  not  fatal  to  beauty?  Visions  of  child-bear- 

293 


ing  women  in  the  hospitals,  with  sagging  breasts  and 
relaxed  bodies,  came  to  her.  That  was  a  part  of  the 
price. 

Harriet  was  stirring,  across  the  hall.  Sidney  could 
hear  her  moving  about  with  flat,  inelastic  steps. 

That  was  the  alternative.  One  married,  happily 
or  not  as  the  case  might  be,  and  took  the  risk.  Or 
one  stayed  single,  like  Harriet,  growing  a  little  hard, 
exchanging  slimness  for  leanness  and  austerity  of 
figure,  flat-chested,  thin- voiced.  One  blossomed  and 
withered,  then,  or  one  shriveled  up  without  having 
flowered.  All  at  once  it  seemed  very  terrible  to  her. 
She  felt  as  if  she  had  been  caught  in  an  inexorable 
hand  that  had  closed  about  her. 

Harriet  found  her  a  little  later,  face  down  on  her 
mother's  bed,  crying  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 
She  scolded  her  roundly. 

" You've  been  overworking,"  she  said.  "You've 
been  getting  thinner.  Your  measurements  for  that 
suit  showed  it.  I  have  never  approved  of  this  hos- 
pital training,  and  after  last  January  - 

She  could  hardly  credit  her  senses  when  Sidney, 
still  swollen  with  weeping,  told  her  of  her  engage- 
ment. 

"  But  I  don't  understand.  If  you  care  for  him  and 
he  has  asked  you  to  marry  him,  why  on  earth  are 
you  crying  your  eyes  out?" 

"  I  do  care.  I  don't  know  why  I  cried.  It  just 
came  over  me,  all  at  once,  that  I  —  It  was  just  fool- 
ishness. I  am  very  happy,  Aunt  Harriet." 

294 


Harriet  thought  she  understood.  The  girl  needed 
her  mother,  and  she,  Harriet,  was  a  hard,  middle- 
aged  woman  and  a  poor  substitute.  She  patted  Sid- 
ney's moist  hand. 

"I  guess  I  understand,"  she  said.  "I'll  attend 
to  your  wedding  things,  Sidney.  We'll  show  this 
street  that  even  Christine  Lorenz  can  be  outdone." 
And,  as  an  afterthought:  "I  hope  Max  Wilson  will 
settle  down  now.  He's  been  none  too  steady." 

K.  had  taken  Christine  to  see  Tillie  that  Sunday 
afternoon.  Palmer  had  the  car  out  —  had,  indeed, 
not  been  home  since  the  morning  of  the  previous 
day.  He  played  golf  every  Saturday  afternoon  and 
Sunday  at  the  Country  Club,  and  invariably  spent 
the  night  there.  So  K.  and  Christine  walked  from 
the  end  of  the  trolley  line,  saying  little,  but  under 
K.'s  keen  direction  finding  bright  birds  in  the 
hedgerows,  hidden  field  flowers,  a  dozen  wonders  of 
the  country  that  Christine  had  never  dreamed  of. 

The  interview  with  Tillie  had  been  a  disappoint- 
ment to  K.  Christine,  with  the  best  and  kindliest 
intentions,  struck  a  wrong  note.  In  her  endeavor 
to  cover  the  fact  that  everything  in  Tillie's  world 
was  wrong,  she  fell  into  the  error  of  pretending  that 
everything  was  right. 

Tillie,  grotesque  of  figure  and  tragic-eyed,  lis- 
tened to  her  patiently,  while  K.  stood,  uneasy  and 
uncomfortable,  in  the  wide  door  of  the  hay-barn  and 
watched  automobiles  turning  in  from  the  road. 

295 


When  Christine  rose  to  leave,  she  confessed  her  fail- 
ure frankly. 

"I've  meant  well,  Tillie,"  she  said.  "I'm  afraid 
I  've  said  exactly  what  I  should  n't.  I  can  only  think 
that,  no  matter  what  is  wrong,  two  wonderful 
pieces  of  luck  have  come  to  you.  Your  husband  — • 
that  is,  Mr.  Sch witter  —  cares  for  you,  —  you  ad- 
mit that,  —  and  you  are  going  to  have  a  child." 

Tillie's  pale  eyes  filled. 

"I  used  to  be  a  good  woman,  Mrs.  Howe,"  she 
said  simply.  "Now  I'm  not.  When  I  look  in  that 
glass  at  myself,  and  call  myself  what  I  am,  I  'd  give 
a  good  bit  to  be  back  on  the  Street  again." 

She  found  opportunity  for  a  word  with  K.  while 
Christine  went  ahead  of  him  out  of  the  barn. 

"I've  been  wanting  to  speak  to  you,  Mr.  Le 
Moyne."  She  lowered  her  voice.  "Joe  Drummond  's 
been  coming  out  here  pretty  regular.  Schwitter 
says  he's  drinking  a  little.  He  don't  like  him  loafing 
around  here :  he  sent  him  home  last  Sunday.  What 's 
come  over  the  boy?" 

"I'll  talk  to  him." 

"The  barkeeper  says  he  carries  a  revolver  around, 
and  talks  wild.  I  thought  maybe  Sidney  Page  could 
do  something  with  him." 

"  I  think  he'd  not  like  her  to  know.  I '11  do  what 
I  can." 

K.'s  face  was  thoughtful  as  he  followed  Christine 
to  the  road. 

Christine  was  very  silent  on  the  way  back  to  the 
296 


city.  More  than  once  K.  found  her  eyes  fixed  on 
him,  and  it  puzzled  him.  Poor  Christine  was  only 
trying  to  fit  him  into  the  world  she  knew  —  a  world 
whose  men  were  strong  but  seldom  tender,  who  gave 
up  their  Sundays  to  golf,  not  to  visiting  unhappy 
outcasts  in  the  country.  How  masculine  he  was,  and 
yet  how  gentle !  It  gave  her  a  choking  feeling  in  her 
throat.  She  took  advantage  of  a  steep  bit  of  road 
to  stop  and  stand  a  moment,  her  fingers  on  his 
shabby  gray  sleeve. 

It  was  late  when  they  got  home.  Sidney  was  sit- 
ting on  the  low  step,  waiting  for  them. 

Wilson  had  come  across  at  seven,  impatient  be- 
cause he  must  see  a  case  that  evening,  and  promising 
an  early  return.  In  the  little  hall  he  had  drawn  her 
to  him  and  kissed  her,  this  time  not  on  the  lips,  but 
on  the  forehead  and  on  each  of  her  white  eyelids. 

" Little  wife-to-be!"  he  had  said,  and  was  rather 
ashamed  of  his  own  emotion.  From  across  the  Street, 
as  he  got  into  his  car,  he  had  waved  his  hand  to  her. 

Christine  went  to  her  room,  and,  with  a  long 
breath  of  content,  K.  folded  up  his  long  length  on 
the  step  below  Sidney. 

"Well,  dear  ministering  angel,"  he  said,  "how 
goes  the  world?" 

"Things  have  been  happening,  K." 

He  sat  erect  and  looked  at  her.  Perhaps  because 
she  had  a  woman's  instinct  for  making  the  most 
of  a  piece  of  news,  perhaps  —  more  likely,  indeed  — 
because  she  divined  that  the  announcement  would 

297 


not  be  entirely  agreeable,  she  delayed  it,  played 
with  it. 

"  I  have  gone  into  the  operating-room." 

"Fine!" 

"The  costume  is  ugly.    I  look  hideous  in  it." 

"Doubtless." 

He  smiled  up  at  her.  There  was  relief  in  his  eyes, 
and  still  a  question. 

"Is  that  all  the  news?" 

"There  is  something  else,  K." 

It  was  a  moment  before  he  spoke.  He  sat  looking 
ahead,  his  face  set.  Apparently  he  did  not  wish  to 
hear  her  say  it;  for  when,  after  a  moment,  he  spoke, 
it  was  to  forestall  her,  after  all. 

"I  think  I  know  what  it  is,  Sidney." 

"You  expected  it,  did  n't  you?" 

"I  —  it's  not  an  entire  surprise." 

"Are  n't  you  going  to  wish  me  happiness?" 

"If  my  wishing  could  bring  anything  good  to  you, 
you  would  have  everything  in  the  worloV^ 

His  voice  was  not  entirely  steady,  but  his  eyes 
smiled  into  hers. 

"Am  I  —  are  we  going  to  lose  you  soon?" 

"I  shall  finish  my  training.  I  made  that  a  con- 
dition." 

Then,  in  a  burst  of  confidence:  — 

"I  know  so  little,  K.,  and  he  knows  so  much!  I 
am  going  to  read  and  study,  so  that  he  can  talk  to 
me  about  his  work.  That's  what  marriage  ought 
to  be,  a  sort  of  partnership.  Don't  you  think  so?" 

298 


K.  nodded.  His  mind  refused  to  go  forward  to  the 
unthinkable  future.  Instead,  he  was  looking  back 
—  back  to  those  days  when  he  had  hoped  sometime 
to  have  a  wife  to  talk  to  about  his  work,  that  be- 
loved work  that  was  no  longer  his.  And,  finding  it 
agonizing,  as  indeed  all  thought  was  that  summer 
night,  he  dwelt  for  a  moment  on  that  evening,  a 
year  before,  when  in  the  same  June  moonlight,  he 
had  come  up  the  Street  and  had  seen  Sidney  where 
she  was  now,  with  the  tree  shadows  playing  over  her. 

Even  that  first  evening  he  had  been  jealous. 

It  had  been  Joe  then.  Now  it  was  another  and 
older  man,  daring,  intelligent,  unscrupulous.  And 
this  time  he  had  lost  her  absolutely,  lost  her  without 
a  struggle  to  keep  her.  His  only  struggle  had  been 
with  himself,  to  remember  that  he  had  nothing  to 
offer  but  failure. 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Sidney  suddenly,  "that  it 
is  almost  a  year  since  that  night  you  came  up  the 
Street,  and  I  was  here  on  the  steps?" 

"That's  a  fact,  isn't  it!"  He  managed  to  get 
some  surprise  into  his  voice. 

"How  Joe  objected  to  your  coming!   Poor  Joe!" 

"Do  you  ever  see  him?" 

"Hardly  ever  now.    I  think  he  hates  me." 

"Why?" 

"Because  —  well,  you  know,  K.  Why  do  men 
always  hate  a  woman  who  just  happens  not  to  love 
them?" 

"  I  don't  believe  they  do.  It  would  be  much  bet- 
299 


ter  for  them  if  they  could.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  there 
are  poor  devils  who  go  through  life  trying  to  do 
that  very  thing,  and  failing." 

Sidney's  eyes  were  on  the  tall  house  across.  It 
was  Dr.  Ed's  evening  office  hour,  and  through  the 
open  window  she  could  see  a  line  of  people  waiting 
their  turn.  They  sat  immobile,  inert,  doggedly  pa- 
tient, until  the  opening  of  the  back  office  door  pro- 
moted them  all  one  chair  toward  the  consulting- 
room. 

"I  shall  be  just  across  the  Street,"  she  said  at 
last.  "Nearer  than  I  am  at  the  hospital." 

"You  will  be  much  farther  away.  You  will  be 
married." 

"But  we  will  still  be  friends,  K.?" 

Her  voice  was  anxious,  a  little  puzzled.  She  was 
often  puzzled  with  him. 

"Of  course." 

But,  after  another  silence,  he  astounded  her.  She 
had  fallen  into  the  way  of  thinking  of  him  as  always 
belonging  to  the  house,  even,  in  a  sense,  belonging  to 
her.  And  now  — 

"Shall  you  mind  very  much  if  I  tell  you  that  I 
am  thinking  of  going  away?" 

"K.!" 

"My  dear  child,  you  do  not  need  a  roomer  here 
any  more.  I  have  always  received  infinitely  more 
than  I  have  paid  for,  even  in  the  small  services  I 
have  been  able  to  render.  Your  Aunt  Harriet  is 
prosperous.  You  are  away,  and  some  day  you  are 

300 


going  to  be  married.     Don't  you  see  —  I  am  not 
needed?" 

"That  does  not  mean  you  are  not  wanted." 

"I  shall  not  go  far.    I'll  always  be  near  enough, 
so  that  I  can  see  you"  —  he  changed  this  hastily  - 
"so  that  we  can  still  meet  and  talk  things  over. 
Old  friends  ought  to  be  like  that,  not  too  near,  but 
to  be  turned  on  when  needed,  like  a  tap." 

"Where  will  you  go?" 

"The  Rosenfelds  are  rather  in  straits.  I  thought 
of  helping  them  to  get  a  small  house  somewhere  and 
of  taking  a  room  with  them.  It's  largely  a  matter  of 
furniture.  If  they  could  furnish  it  even  plainly,  it 
could  be  done.  I  —  have  n't  saved  anything." 

"Do  you  ever  think  of  yourself?"  she  cried. 
"Have  you  always  gone  through  life  helping  people, 
K.?  Save  any  thing !  I  should  think  not !  You  spend 
it  all  on  others."  She  bent  over  and  put  her  hand 
on  his  shoulder.  "It  will  not  be  home  without 
you,  K." 

To  save  him,  he  could  not  have  spoken  just  then. 
A  riot  of  rebellion  surged  up  in  him,  that  he  must 
let  this  best  thing  in  his  life  go  out  of  it.  To  go 
empty  of  heart  through  the  rest  of  his  days,  while 
his  very  arms  ached  to  hold  her!  And  she  was  so 
near  —  just  above,  with  her  hand  on  his  shoulder, 
her  wistful  face  so  close  that,  without  moving,  he 
could  have  brushed  her  hair. 

"You  have  not  wished  me  happiness,  K.  Do 
you  remember,  when  I  was  going  to  the  hospital 

301 


and  you  gave  me  the  little  watch  —  do  you  remem- 
ber what  you  said?" 

41  Yes  "  —  huskily. 

"Will  you  say  it  again?" 

"But  that  was  good-bye." 

"  Is  n't  this,  in  a  way?  You  are  going  to  leave  us, 
and  I  —  say  it,  K." 

"Good-bye,  dear,  and  —  God  bless  you." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  announcement  of  Sidney's  engagement  was 
not  to  be  made  for  a  year.  Wilson,  chafing  under 
the  delay,  was  obliged  to  admit  to  himself  that  it 
was  best.  Many  things  could  happen  in  a  year. 
Carlotta  would  have  finished  her  training,  and  by 
that  time  would  probably  be  reconciled  to  the 
ending  of  their  relationship. 

He  intended  to  end  that.  He  had  meant  every 
word  of  what  he  had  sworn  to  Sidney.  He  was  gen- 
uinely in  love,  even  unselfishly  —  as  far  as  he  could 
be  unselfish.  The  secret  was  to  be  carefully  kept  also 
for  Sidney's  sake.  The  hospital  did  not  approve  of 
engagements  between  nurses  and  the  staff.  It  was 
disorganizing,  bad  for  discipline. 

Sidney  was  very  happy  all  that  summer.  She 
glowed  with  pride  when  her  lover  put  through  a  diffi- 
cult piece  of  work ;  flushed  and  palpitated  when  she 
heard  his  praises  sung;  grew  to  know,  by  a  sort  of 
intuition,  when  he  was  in  the  house.  She  wore  his 
ring  on  a  fine  chain  around  her  neck,  and  grew 
prettier  every  day. 

Once  or  twice,  however,  when  she  was  at  home, 
away  from  the  glamour,  her  early  fears  obsessed  her. 
Would  he  always  love  her?  He  was  so  handsome  and 
so  gifted,  and  there  were  women  who  were  mad 
about  him.  That  was  the  gossip  of  the  hospital. 

303 


Suppose  she  married  him  and  he  tired  of  her?  In 
her  humility  she  thought  that  perhaps  only  her 
youth,  and  such  charm  as  she  had  that  belonged  to 
youth,  held  him.  And  before  her,  always,  she  saw 
the  tragic  women  of  the  wards. 

K.  had  postponed  his  leaving  until  fall.  Sidney 
had  been  insistent,  and  Harriet  had  topped  the 
argument  in  her  businesslike  way.  "  If  you  insist  on 
being  an  idiot  and  adopting  the  Rosenfeld  family," 
she  said,  "wait  until  September.  The  season  for 
boarders  does  n't  begin  until  fall." 

So  K.  waited  for  "the  season,"  and  ate  his  heart 
out  for  Sidney  in  the  interval. 

Johnny  Rosenfeld  still  lay  in  his  ward,  inert  from 
the  waist  down.  K.  was  his  most  frequent  visitor. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  watching  the  boy 
closely,  at  Max  Wilson's  request. 

"Tell  me  when  I'm  to  do  it,"  said  Wilson,  "and 
when  the  time  conies,  for  God's  sake,  stand  by  me. 
Come  to  the  operation.  He's  got  so  much  confi- 
dence that  I'll  help  him  that  I  don't  dare  to 
fail." 

So  K.  came  on  visiting  days,  and,  by  special  dis- 
pensation, on  Saturday  afternoons.  He  was  teaching 
the  boy  basket- making.  Not  that  he  knew  anything 
about  it  himself ;  but,  by  means  of  a  blind  teacher,  he 
kept  just  one  lesson  ahead.  The  ward  was  intensely 
interested.  It  found  something  absurd  and  rather 
touching  in  this  tall,  serious  young  man  with  the  sur- 
prisingly deft  fingers,  tying  raffia  knots. 

304 


The  first  basket  went,  by  Johnny's  request,  to 
Sidney  Page. 

11 1  want  her  to  have  it,"  he  said.  ''She  got  corns 
on  her  fingers  from  rubbing  me  when  I  came  in  first; 
and,  besides — " 

1 '  Yes?  "  said  K.  He  was  tying  a  most  complicated 
knot,  and  could  not  look  up. 

" I  know  something,"  said  Johnny.  " I'm  not  go- 
ing to  get  in  wrong  by  talking,  but  I  know  some- 
thing. You  give  her  the  basket." 

K.  looked  up  then,  and  surprised  Johnny's  secret 
in  his  face. 

"Ah!"  he  said. 

"  If  I  'd  squealed  she'd  have  finished  me  for  good. 
They  've  got  me,  you  know.  I  'm  not  running  in  2.40 
these  days." 

"I'll  not  tell,  or  make  it  uncomfortable  for  you. 
What  do  you  know?" 

Johnny  looked  around.  The  ward  was  in  the  som- 
nolence of  mid-afternoon.  The  nearest  patient,  a 
man  in  a  wheel-chair,  was  snoring  heavily. 

"  It  was  the  dark-eyed  one  that  changed  the  medi- 
cine on  me,"  he  said.  "The  one  with  the  heels  that 
were  always  tapping  around,  waking  me  up.  She 
did  it:  I  saw  her." 

After  all,  it  was  only  what  K.  had  suspected  be- 
fore. But  a  sense  of  impending  danger  to  Sidney  ob- 
sessed him.  If  Carlotta  would  do  that,  what  would 
she  do  when  she  learned  of  the  engagement?  And 
he  had  known  her  before.  He  believed  she  was 

305 


totally  unscrupulous.   The  odd  coincidence  of  their 
paths  crossing  again  troubled  him. 

Carlotta  Harrison  was  well  again,  and  back  on 
duty.   Luckily  for  Sidney,  her  three  months'  service  \ 
in  the  operating-room  kept  them  apart.    For  Car-  •' 
lotta  was  now  not  merely  jealous.  She  found  herself 
neglected,  ignored.    It  ate  her  like  a  fever. 

But  she  did  not  yet  suspect  an  engagement.  It 
had  been  her  theory  that  Wilson  would  not  marry 
easily  —  that,  in  a  sense,  he  would  have  to  be  co- 
erced into  marriage.  Some  clever  woman  would 
marry  him  some  day,  and  no  one  would  be  more  as- 
tonished than  himself.  She  thought  merely  that  Sid- 
ney was  playing  a  game  like  her  own,  with  different 
weapons.  So  she  planned  her  battle,  ignorant  that 
she  had  lost  already. 

Her  method  was  simple  enough.  She  stopped 
sulking,  met  Max  with  smiles,  made  no  overtures 
toward  a  renewal  of  their  relations.  At  first  this  an- 
noyed him.  Later  it  piqued  him.  To  desert  a  wo- 
man was  justifiable,  under  certain  circumstances. 
But  to  desert  a  woman,  and  have  her  apparently  not 
even  know  it,  was  against  the  rules  of  the  game. 

During  a  surgical  dressing  in  a  private  room,  one 
day,  he  allowed  his  fingers  to  touch  hers,  as  on  that 
day  a  year  before  when  she  had  taken  Miss  Simp- 
son's place  in  his  office.  He  was  rewarded  by  the 
same  slow,  smouldering  glance  that  had  caught  his 
attention  before.  So  she  was  only  acting  indiffer- 
ence! 

306 


Then  Carlotta  made  her  second  move.  A  new  in- 
terne had  come  into  the  house,  and  was  going 
through  the  process  of  learning  that  from  a  senior 
at  the  medical  school  to  a  half-baked  junior  interne 
is  a  long  step  back.  He  had  to  endure  the  good-hu- 
mored contempt  of  the  older  men,  the  patronizing 
instructions  of  nurses  as  to  rules. 

Carlotta  alone  treated  him  with  deference.  His 
uneasy  rounds  in  Carlotta's  precinct  took  on  the 
state  and  form  of  staff  visitations.  She  flattered, 
cajoled,  looked  up  to  him. 

After  a  time  it  dawned  on  Wilson  that  this  junior 
cub  was  getting  more  attention  than  himself:  that, 
wherever  he  happened  to  be,  somewhere  in  the  offing 
would  be  Carlotta  and  the  Lamb,  the  latter  eyeing 
her  with  worship.  Her  indifference  had  only  piqued 
him.  The  enthroning  of  a  successor  galled  him.  Be- 
tween them,  the  Lamb  suffered  mightily  —  was  sub- 
ject to  frequent  " bawling  out,"  as  he  termed  it,  in 
the  operating-room  as  he  assisted  the  anaesthetist. 
He  took  his  troubles  to  Carlotta,  who  soothed  him 
in  the  corridor  —  in  plain  sight  of  her  quarry,  of 
course  —  by  putting  a  sympathetic  hand  on  his 


'  sleeve. 


Then,  one  day,  Wilson  was  goaded  to  speech. 

"For  the  love  of  Heaven,  Carlotta,"  he  said  im- 
patiently, "stop  making  love  to  that  wretched  boy. 
He  wriggles  like  a  worm  if  you  look  at  him." 

"I  like  him.  He  is  thoroughly  genuine.  I  respect 
him,  and  —  he  respects  me/' 

307 


"It's  rather  a  silly  game,  you  know." 

" What  game?" 

"Do  you  think  I  don't  understand?" 

"Perhaps  you  do.  I  —  I  don't  really  care  a  lot 
about  him,  Max.  But  I  've  been  down-hearted.  He 
cheers  me  up." 

Her  attraction  for  him  was  almost  gone  —  not 
quite.  He  felt  rather  sorry  for  her. 

"I'm  sorry.   Then  you  are  not  angry  with  me?" 

"Angry?  No."  She  lifted  her  eyes  to  his,  and 
for  once  she  was  not  acting.  "  I  knew  it  would  end, 
of  course.  I  have  lost  a  —  a  lover.  I  expected  that. 
But  I  wanted  to  keep  a  friend." 

It  was  the  right  note.  Why,  after  all,  should  he 
not  be  her  friend?  He  had  treated  her  cruelly,  hide- 
ously. If  she  still  desired  his  friendship,  there  was 
no  disloyalty  to  Sidney  in  giving  it.  And  Carlotta 
was  very  careful.  Not  once  again  did  she  allow  him 
to  see  what  lay  in  her  eyes.  She  told  him  of  her  wor- 
ries. Her  training  was  almost  over.  She  had  a 
chance  to  take  up  institutional  work.  She  abhorred 
the  thought  of  private  duty.  What  would  he  advise? 

The  Lamb  was  hovering  near,  hot  eyes  on  them 
both.  It  was  no  place  to  talk. 

"Come  to  the  office  and  we'll  talk  it  over." 

"I  don't  like  to  go  there;  Miss  Simpson  is  sus- 
picious." 

The  institution  she  spoke  of  was  in  another  city. 
It  occurred  to  Wilson  that  if  she  took  it  the  affair 
would  have  reached  a  graceful  and  legitimate  end. 

308 


Also,  the  thought  of  another  stolen  evening  alone 
with  her  was  not  unpleasant.  It  would  be  the  last, 
he  promised  himself.  After  all,  it  was  owing  to  her. 
He  had  treated  her  badly. 

Sidney  would  be  at  a  lecture  that  night.  The  even- 
ing loomed  temptingly  free. 

"  Suppose  you  meet  me  at  the  old  corner/*  he  said 
carelessly,  eyes  on  the  Lamb,  who  was  forgetting 
that  he  was  only  a  junior  interne  and  was  glaring 
ferociously.  "We'll  run  out  into  the  country  and 
talk  things  over." 

She  demurred,  with  her  heart  beating  triumph- 
antly. 

"  What 's  the  use  of  going  back  to  that?  It 's  over, 
is  n't  it?" 

Her  objection  made  him  determined.  When  at 
last  she  had  yielded,  and  he  made  his  way  down  to 
the  smoking-room,  it  was  with  the  feeling  that  he 
had  won  a  victory. 

K.  had  been  uneasy  all  that  day;  his  ledgers  irri- 
tated him.  He  had  been  sleeping  badly  since  Sid- 
ney's announcement  of  her  engagement.  At  five 
o'clock,  when  he  left  the  office,  he  found  Joe  Drum- 
mond  waiting  outside  on  the  pavement. 

"  Mother  said  you  'd  been  up  to  see  me  a  couple  of 
times.  I  thought  I  'd  come  around." 

K.  looked  at  his  watch. 

"What  do  you  say  to  a  walk?" 

"Not  out  in  the  country.  I'm  not  as  muscular 
309 


as  you  are.    I  '11  go  about  town  for  a  half -hour  or 


so." 


Thus  forestalled,  K.  found  his  subject  hard  to  lead 
up  to.  But  here  again  Joe  met  him  more  than  half- 
way. 

"Well,  go  on,"  he  said,  when  they  found  them- 
selves in  the  park;  "I  don't  suppose  you  were  pay- 
ing a  call." 

"No." 

"  I  guess  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say." 

11 1  'm  not  going  to  preach,  if  you  're  expecting  that. 
Ordinarily,  if  a  man  insists  on  making  a  fool  of  him- 
self, I  let  him  alone." 

"Why  make  an  exception  of  me?" 

"One  reason  is  that  I  happen  to  like  you.  The 
other  reason  is  that,  whether  you  admit  it  or  not, 
you  are  acting  like  a  young  idiot,  and  are  putting  the 
responsibility  on  the  shoulders  of  some  one  else." 

"She  is  responsible,  is  n't  she?" 

"Not  in  the  least.     How  old  are  you,  Joe?" 

"  Twenty- three,  almost." 

"Exactly.  You  are  a  man,  and  you  are  acting  like 
a  bad  boy.  It 's  a  disappointment  to  me.  It 's  more 
than  that  to  Sidney." 

"Much  she  cares!  She's  going  to  marry  Wilson, 
is  n't  she?" 

"There  is  no  announcement  of  any  engagement." 

"She  is,  and  you  know  it.  Well,  she'll  be  happy 
—  not!  If  I  'd  go  to  her  to-night  and  tell  her  what  I 
know,  she'd  never  see  him  again." 

310 


The  idea,  thus  born  in  his  overwrought  brain,  ob- 
sessed him.  He  returned  to  it  again  and  again.  Le 
Moyne  was  -uneasy.  He  was  not  certain  that  the 
boy's  statement  had  any  basis  in  fact  His  single 
determination  was  to  save  Sidney  from  any  pain. 

When  Joe  suddenly  announced  his  inclination  to 
go  out  into  the  country  after  all,  he  suspected  a  ruse 
to  get  rid  of  him,  and  insisted  on  going  along.  Joe 
consented  grudgingly. 

"Car's  at  Bailey's  garage,"  he  said  sullenly.  "I 
don't  know  when  I'll  get  back." 

"That  won't  matter."  K.'s  tone  was  cheerful. 
"I'm  not  sleeping,  anyhow." 

That  passed  unnoticed  until  they  were  on  the 
highroad,  with  the  car  running  smoothly  between 
yellowing  fields  of  wheat.  Then :  — 

"So  you've  got  it  too!"  he  said.  "We're  a  fine 
pair  of  fools.  We'd  both  be  better  off  if  I  sent  the 
car  over  a  bank." 

He  gave  the  wheel  a  reckless  twist,  and  Le  Moyne 
called  him  to  time  sternly. 

They  had  supper  at  the  White  Springs  Hotel  — 
not  on  the  terrace,  but  in  the  little  room  where  Car- 
lotta  and  Wilson  had  taken  their  first  meal  together. 
K.  ordered  beer  for  them  both,  and  Joe  submitted 
with  bad  grace. 

But  the  meal  cheered  and  steadied  him.  K.  found 
him  more  amenable  to  reason,  and,  gaining  his  con- 
fidence, learned  of  his  desire  to  leave  the  city. 

"I'm  stuck  here,"  he  said.    "I'm  the  only  oner 


and  mother  yells  blue  murder  when  I  talk  about  it. 
I  want  to  go  to  Cuba.  My  uncle  owns  a  farm  down 
there." 

"  Perhaps  I  can  talk  your  mother  over.  I  Ve  been 
there." 

Joe  was  all  interest.  His  dilated  pupils  became 
more  normal,  his  restless  hands  grew  quiet.  K.'s 
even  voice,  the  picture  he  drew  of  life  on  the  island, 
the  stillness  of  the  little  hotel  in  its  mid-week  dull- 
ness, seemed  to  quiet  the  boy's  tortured  nerves.  He 
was  nearer  to  peace  than  he  had  been  for  many 
days.  But  he  smoked  incessantly,  lighting  one  cigar- 
ette from  another. 

At  ten  o'clock  he  left  K.  and  went  for  the  car.  He 
paused  for  a  moment,  rather  sheepishly,  by  K.'s 
chair. 

"I'm  feeling  a  lot  better,"  he  said.  "I  have  n't 
got  the  band  around  my  head.  You  talk  to  mother." 

That  was  the  last  K.  saw  of  Joe  Drummond  until 
the  ttext  day. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

CARLOTTA  dressed  herself  with  unusual  care  —  not 
in  black  this  time,  but  in  white.  She  coiled  her  yel- 
low hair  in  a  soft  knot  at  the  back  of  her  head,  and 
she  resorted  to  the  faintest  shading  of  rouge.  She 
intended  to  be  gay,  cheerful.  The  ride  was  to  be  a 
bright  spot  in  Wilson's  memory.  He  expected  re- 
criminations ;  she  meant  to  make  him  happy.  That 
was  the  secret  of  the  charm  some  women  had  for 
men.  They  went  to  such  women  to  forget  their 
troubles.  She  set  the  hour  of  their  meeting  at  nine, 
when  the  late  dusk  of  summer  had  fallen;  and  she 
met  him  then,  smiling,  a  faintly  perfumed  white 
figure,  slim  and  young,  with  a  thrill  in  her  voice  that 
was  only  half  assumed. 

"  It 's  very  late,"  he  complained.  " Surely  you  are 
not  going  to  be  back  at  ten." 

"I  have  special  permission  to  be  out  late." 

"Good!"  And  then,  recollecting  their  new  situ- 
ation: "We  have  a  lot  to  talk  over.  It  will  take 
•  time." 

At  the  White  Springs  Hotel  they  stopped  to  fill 
the  gasolene  tank  of  the  car.  Joe  Drummond  saw 
Wilson  there,  in  the  sheet-iron  garage  alongside  of 
the  road.  The  Wilson  car  was  in  the  shadow.  It  did 
not  occur  to  Joe  that  the  white  figure  in  the  car  was 
not  Sidney.  He  went  rather  white,  and  stepped  out 

313 


of  the  zone  of  light.  The  influence  of  Le  Moyne  was 
still  on  him,  however,  and  he  went  on  quietly  with 
what  he  was  doing.  But  his  hands  shook  as  he  filled 
the  radiator. 

When  Wilson's  car  had  gone  on,  he  went  automat- 
ically about  his  preparations  for  the  return  trip  - 
lifted  a  seat  cushion  to  investigate  his  own  store  of 
gasolene,  replacing  carefully  the  revolver  he  always 
carried  under  the  seat  and  packed  in  waste  to  pre- 
vent its  accidental  discharge,  lighted  his  lamps,  ex- 
amined a  loose  brake-band. 

His  coolness  gratified  him.  He  had  been  an  ass: 
Le  Moyne  was  right.  He  'd  get  away  —  to  Cuba  if 
he  could  —  and  start  over  again.  He  would  forget 
the  Street  and  let  it  forget  him. 

The  men  in  the  garage  were  talking. 

"To  Schwitter's,  of  course,"  one  of  them  grum- 
bled. "We  might  as  well  go  out  of  business." 

"There's  no  money  in  running  a  straight  place. 
Schwitter  and  half  a  dozen  others  are  getting  rich." 

"That  was  Wilson,  the  surgeon  in  town.  He  cut 
off  my  brother-in-law's  leg  —  charged  him  as  much 
as  if  he  had  grown  a  new  one  for  him.  He  used  to 
come  here.  Now  he  goes  on  to  Schwitter 's,  like  the 
rest.  Pretty  girl  he  had  with  him.  You  can  bet  on 
Wilson." 

So  Max  Wilson  was  taking  Sidney  to  Schwitter's, 
making  her  the  butt  of  garage  talk!  The  smiles  of 
the  men  were  evil.  Joe's  hands  grew  cold,  his  head 
hot.  A  red  mist  spread  between  him  and  the  line  of 


electric  lights.  He  knew  Schwitter's,  and  he  knew 
Wilson. 

He  flung  himself  into  his  car  and  threw  the  throt- 
tle open.  The  car  jerked,  stalled. 

"You  can't  start  like  that,  son,"  one  of  the  men 
remonstrated.  "You  let  'er  in  too  fast." 

"You  go  to  hell!"  Joe  snarled,  and  made  a  sec- 
ond ineffectual  effort. 

Thus  adjured,  the  men  offered  neither  further 
advice  nor  assistance.  The  minutes  went  by  in  use- 
less cranking  —  fifteen.  The  red  mist  grew  heavier. 
Every  lamp  was  a  danger  signal.  But  when  K., 
growing  uneasy,  came  out  into  the  yard,  the  engine 
had  started  at  last.  He  was  in  time  to  see  Joe  run 
his  car  into  the  road  and  turn  it  viciously  toward 
Schwitter's. 

Carlotta's  nearness  was  having  its  calculated  ef- 
fect on  Max  Wilson.  His  spirits  rose  as  the  engine, 
marking  perfect  time,  carried  them  along  the  quiet 
roads. 

Partly  it  was  reaction  —  relief  that  she  should  be 
so  reasonable,  so  complaisant  —  and  a  sort  of  holi- 
day spirit  after  the  day's  hard  work.  Oddly  enough, 
and  not  so  irrational  as  may  appear,  Sidney  formed 
a  part  of  the  evening's  happiness  —  that  she  loved 
him;  that,  back  in  the  lecture-room,  eyes  and  even 
mind  on  the  lecturer,  her  heart  was  with  him. 

So,  with  Sidney  the  basis  of  his  happiness,  he 
made  the  most  of  his  evening's  freedom.  He  sang  a 
little  in  his  clear  tenor  —  even,  once  when  they  had 

315 


slowed  down  at  a  crossing,  bent  over  audaciously 
and  kissed  Carlotta's  hand  in  the  full  glare  of  a  pass- 
ing train. 

"How  reckless  of  you!" 

"I  like  to  be  reckless/'  he  replied. 

His  boyishness  annoyed  Carlotta.  She  did  not 
want  the  situation  to  get  out  of  hand.  Moreover, 
what  was  so  real  for  her  was  only  too  plainly  a  lark 
for  him.  She  began  to  doubt  her  power. 

The  hopelessness  of  her  situation  was  dawning  on 
her.  Even  when  the  touch  of  her  beside  him  and  the 
solitude  of  the  country  roads  got  in  his  blood,  and 
he  bent  toward  her,  she  found  no  encouragement  in 
his  words :  — 

"  I  am  mad  about  you  to-night. " 

She  took  her  courage  in  her  hands :  — 

"Then  why  give  me  up  for  some  one  else?*' 

"That's  — different." 

"Why  is  it  different?  I  am  a  woman.  I  —  I  lore 
you,  Max.  No  one  else  will  ever  care  as  I  do," 

"You  are  in  love  with  the  Lamb!" 

"That  was  a  trick.  I  'm  sorry,  Max.  I  don't  care 
for  any  one  else  in  the  world.  If  you  let  me  go  I  '11 
want  to  die." 

Then,  as  he  was  silent:  — 

"If  you'll  marry  me,  I'll  be  true  to  you  all  my 
life.  I  swear  it.  There  will  be  nobody  else,  ever." 

The  sense,  if  not  the  words,  of  what  he  had  sworn 
to  Sidney  that  Sunday  afternoon  under  the  trees,  on 
this  very  road !  Swift  shame  overtook  him,  that  he 


should  be  here,  that  he  had  allowed  Carlotta  to  re- 
main in  ignorance  of  how  things  really  stood  be- 
tween them. 

"I'm  sorry,  Carlotta.  It's  impossible.  I'm  e*- 
gaged  to  marry  some  one  else." 

"Sidney  Page?"  —  almost  a  whisper. 

"Yes." 

He  was  ashamed  at  the  way  she  took  the  news. 
If  she  had  stormed  or  wept,  he  would  have  known 
what  to  do.  But  she  sat  still,  not  speaking. 

"You  must  have  expected  it,  sooner  or  later." 

Still  she  made  no  reply.  He  thought  she  might 
faint,  and  looked  at  her  anxiously.  Her  profile,  in- 
distinct beside  him,  looked  white  and  drawn.  But 
Carlotta  was  not  fainting.  She  was  making  a  desper- 
ate plan.  If  their  escapade  became  known,  it  would 
end  things  between  Sidney  and  him.  She  was  sure 
of  that.  She  needed  time  to  think  it  out.  It  must 
become  known  without  any  apparent  move  on  her 
part.  If,  for  instance,  she  became  ill,  and  was  away 
from  the  hospital  all  night,  that  might  answer.  The 
thing  would  be  investigated,  and  who  knew  — 

The  car  turned  in  at  Schwitter's  road  and  drew 
up  before  the  house.  The  narrow  porch  was  filled 
with  small  tables,  above  which  hung  rows  of  electric 
lights  enclosed  in  Japanese  paper  lanterns.  Mid- 
week, which  had  found  the  White  Springs  Hotel  al- 
most deserted,  saw  Schwitter's  crowded  tables  set 
out  under  the  trees.  Seeing  the  crowd,  Wilson  drove 
directly  to  the  yard  and  parked  his  machine. 


"No  need  of  running  any  risk,"  he  explained  to 
the  still  figure  beside  him.  "We  can  walk  back  and 
take  a  table  under  the  trees,  away  from  those  in- 
fernal lanterns." 

She  reeled  a  little  as  he  helped  her  out. 

"Not  sick,  are  you?" 

"I'm  dizzy.     I'm  all  right." 

She  looked  white.  He  felt  a  stab  of  pity  for  her. 
She  leaned  rather  heavily  on  him  as  they  walked 
toward  the  house.  The  faint  perfume  that  had  almost 
intoxicated  him,  earlier,  vaguely  irritated  him  now. 

At  the  rear  of  the  house  she  shook  off  his  arm  and 
preceded  him  around  the  building.  She  chose  the 
end  of  the  porch  as  the  place  in  which  to  drop,  and 
went  down  like  a  stone,  falling  back. 

There  was  a  moderate  excitement.  The  visitors 
at  Schwitter's  were  too  much  engrossed  with  them- 
selves to  be  much  interested.  She  opened  her  eyes 
almost  as  soon  as  she  fell  —  to  forestall  any  tests; 
she  was  shrewd  enough  to  know  that  Wilson  would 
detect  her  malingering  very  quickly  —  and  begged 
to  be  taken  into  the  house. 

"  I  feel  very  ill,"  she  said,  and  her  white  face  bore 
her  out. 

Schwitter  and  Bill  carried  her  in  and  up  the  stairs 
to  one  of  the  newly  furnished  rooms.  The  little  man 
was  twittering  with  anxiety.  He  had  a  horror  of 
knockout  drops  and  the  police.  They  laid  her  on  the 
bed,  her  hat  beside  her;  and  Wilson,  stripping  down 
the  long  sleeve  of  her  glove,  felt  her  pulse. 


"There's  a  doctor  in  the  next  town,"  said  Schwit- 
ter.  "I  was  going  to  send  for  him,  anyhow  —  my 
wife's  not  very  well." 

"I'm  a  doctor." 

"Is  it  anything  serious?" 

"  Nothing  serious." 

He  closed  the  door  behind  the  relieved  figure  of 
the  landlord,  and,  going  back  to  Carlotta,  stood 
looking  down  at  her. 

"What  did  you  mean  by  doing  that?' 

"Doing  what?" 

"You  were  no  more  faint  than  I  am." 

She  closed  her  eyes. 

"  I  don't  remember.  Everything  went  black.  The 
lanterns  — " 

He  crossed  the  room  deliberately  and  went  out, 
closing  the  door  behind  him.  He  saw  at  once  where 
he  stood  —  in  what  danger.  If  she  insisted  that  she 
was  ill  and  unable  to  go  back,  there  would  be  a  fuss. 
The  story  would  come  out.  Everything  would  be 
gone.  Schwitter's,  of  all  places! 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  Schwitter  pulled  himself 
together.  After  all,  the  girl  was  only  ill.  There  was 
nothing  for  the  police.  He  looked  at  his  watch.  The 
doctor  ought  to  be  here  by  this  time.  It  was  sooner 
than  they  had  expected.  Even  the  nurse  had  not 
come.  Tillie  was  alone,  out  in  the  harness-room. 
He  looked  through  the  crowded  rooms,  at  the  over- 
flowing porch  with  its  travesty  of  pleasure,  and  he 
hated  the  whole  thing  with  a  desperate  hatred. 

319 


K 


Another  car.  Would  they  never  stop  coming! 
But  perhaps  it  was  the  doctor. 

A  young  man  edged  his  way  into  the  hall  and 
confronted  him. 

"Two  people  just  arrived  here.  A  man  and  a 
woman  —  in  white.  Where  are  they?  " 

It  was  trouble  then,  after  all! 

"  Upstairs  —  first  bedroom  to  the  right."  His 
teeth  chattered.  Surely,  as  a  man  sowed  he  reaped. 

Joe  went  up  the  staircase.  At  the  top,  on  the 
landing,  he  confronted  Wilson.  He  fired  at  him 
without  a  word  —  saw  him  fling  up  his  arms  and 
fall  back,  striking  first  the  wall,  then  the  floor. 

The  buzz  of  conversation  on  the  porch  suddenly 
ceased.  Joe  put  his  revolver  in  his  pocket  and  went 
quietly  down  the  stairs.  The  crowd  parted  to  let 
him  through. 

Carlotta,  crouched  in  her  room,  listening,  not 
daring  to  open  the  door,  heard  the  sound  of  a  car 
as  it  swung  out  into  the  road. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

ON  the  evening  of  the  shooting  at  Schwitter's,  there 
had  been  a  late  operation  at  the  hospital.  Sidney, 
having  duly  transcribed  her  lecture  notes  and  said 
her  prayers,  was  already  asleep  when  she  received 
the  insistent  summons  to  the  operating-room.  She 
dressed  again  with  flying  fingers.  These  night  battles 
with  death  roused  all  her  fighting  blood.  There  were 
times  when  she  felt  as  if,  by  sheer  will,  she  could 
force  strength,  life  itself,  into  failing  bodies.  Her 
sensitive  nostrils  dilated,  her  brain  worked  like  a 
machine. 

That  night  she  received  well-deserved  praise. 
When  the  Lamb,  telephoning  hysterically,  had  failed 
to  locate  the  younger  Wilson,  another  staff  sur- 
geon was  called.  His  keen  eyes  watched  Sidney  — 
felt  her  capacity,  her  fiber,  so  to  speak;  and,  when 
everything  was  over,  he  told  her  what  was  in  his 
mind. 

"  Don't  wear  yourself  out,  girl,"  he  said  gravely. 
"We  need  people  like  you.  It  was  good  work 
to-night  —  fine  work.  I  wish  we  had  more  like 
you." 

By  midnight  the  work  was  done,  and  the  nurse 
in  charge  sent  Sidney  to  bed. 

It  was  the  Lamb  who  received  the  message  about 
Wilson;  and  because  he  was  not  very  keen  at  the 

321 


best,  and  because  the  news  was  so  startling,  he  re- 
fused to  credit  his  ears. 

"Who  is  this  at  the  'phone?" 

"That  doesn't  matter.  Le  Moyne's  my  name 
Get  the  message  to  Dr.  Ed  Wilson  at  once.  We  are 
starting  to  the  city." 

"Tell  me  again.    I  must  n't  make  a  mess  of  this." 

"Dr.  Wilson,  the  surgeon,  has  been  shot,"  came 
slowly  and  distinctly.  "Get  the  staff  there  and  have 
a  room  ready.  Get  the  operating-room  ready,  too." 

The  Lamb  wakened  then,  and  roused  the  house. 
He  was  incoherent,  rather,  so  that  Dr.  Ed  got  the 
impression  that  it  was  Le  Moyne  who  had  been  shot, 
and  only  learned  the  truth  when  he  got  to  the  hos- 
pital. 

"Where  is  he?"  he  demanded.  He  liked  K.,  and 
his  heart  was  sore  within  him. 

"Not  in  yet,  sir.  A  Mr.  Le  Moyne  is  bringing 
him.  Staff's  in  the  executive  committee  room,  sir." 

"But  —  who  has  been  shot?  I  thought  you 
said—" 

The  Lamb  turned  pale  at  that,  and  braced  him- 
self. 

"I'm  sorry  —  I  thought  you  understood.  I  be- 
lieve it's  not  —  not  serious.  It's  Dr.  Max,  sir." 

Dr.  Ed,  who  was  heavy  and  not  very  young,  sat 
down  on  an  office  chair.  Out  of  sheer  habit  he  had 
brought  the  bag.  He  put  it  down  on  the  floor  beside 
him,  and  moistened  his  lips. 

"Is  he  living?" 

322 


11  Oh,  yes,  sir.  I  gathered  that  Mr.  Le  Moyne  did 
not  think  it  serious." 

He  lied,  and  Dr.  Ed  knew  he  lied. 

The  Lamb  stood  by  the  door,  and  Dr.  Ed  sat  and 
waited.  The  office  clock  said  half  after  three.  Out- 
side the  windows,  the  night  world  went  by  —  taxi- 
cabs  full  of  roisterers,  women  who  walked  stealthily 
close  to  the  buildings,  a  truck  carrying  steel,  so 
heavy  that  it  shook  the  hospital  as  it  rumbled  by. 

Dr.  Ed  sat  and  waited.  The  bag  with  the  dog- 
collar  in  it  was  on  the  floor.  He  thought  of  many 
things,  but  mostly  of  the  promise  he  had  made  his 
mother.  And,  having  forgotten  the  injured  man's 
shortcomings,  he  was  remembering  his  good  quali- 
ties —  his  cheerfulness,  his  courage,  his  achieve- 
ments. He  remembered  the  day  Max  had  done  the 
Edwardes  operation,  and  how  proud  he  had  been 
of  him.  He  figured  out  how  old  he  was  —  not 
thirty-one  yet,  and  already,  perhaps —  There  he 
stopped  thinking.  Cold  beads  of  sweat  stood  out  on 
his  forehead. 

"I  think  I  hear  them  now,  sir,"  said  the  Lamb, 
and  stood  back  respectfully  to  let  him  pass  out  of 
the  door. 

Carlotta  stayed  in  the  room  during  the  consulta- 
tion. No  one  seemed  to  wonder  why  she  was  there, 
or  to  pay  any  attention  to  her.  The  staff  was 
stricken.  They  moved  back  to  make  room  for  Dr. 
Ed  beside  the  bed,  and  then  closed  in  again. 

Carlotta  waited,  her  hand  over  her  mouth  to  keen 
323 


herself  from  screaming.  Surely  they  would  operate; 
they  would  n't  let  him  die  like  that! 

When  she  saw  the  phalanx  break  up,  and  realized 
that  they  would  not  operate,  she  went  mad.  She 
stood  against  the  door,  and  accused  them  of  coward- 
ice —  taunted  them. 

"Do  you  think  he  would  let  any  of  you  die  like 
that?"  she  cried.  "Die  like  a  hurt  dog,  and  none 
of  you  to  lift  a  hand?" 

It  was  Pfeiffer  who  drew  her  out  of  the  room  and 
tried  to  talk  reason  and  sanity  to  her. 

"It's  hopeless,"  he  said.  "  If  there  was  a  chance, 
we'd  operate,  and  you  know  it." 

The  staff  went  hopelessly  down  the  stairs  to  the 
smoking-room,  and  smoked.  It  was  all  they  could 
do.  The  night  assistant  sent  coffee  down  to  them, 
and  they  drank  it.  Dr.  Ed  stayed  in  his  brother's 
room,  and  said  to  his  mother,  under  his  breath, 
that  he  'd  tried  to  do  his  best  by  Max,  and  that  from 
now  on  it  would  be  up  to  her. 

K.  had  brought  the  injured  man  in.  The  country 
doctor  had  come,  too,  finding  Tillie's  trial  not  im- 
minent. On  the  way  in  he  had  taken  it  for  granted 
that  K.  was  a  medical  man  like  himself,  and  had 
placed  his  hypodermic  case  at  his  disposal. 

When  he  missed  him,  —  in  the  smoking-room, 
that  was,  —  he  asked  for  him. 

"I  don't  see  the  chap  who  came  in  with  us,"  he 
said.  "Clever  fellow.  Like  to  know  his  name." 

The  staff  did  not  know. 
324 


K.  sat  alone  on  a  bench  in  the  hall.  He  wondered 
who  would  tell  Sidney ;  he  hoped  they  would  be  very 
gentle  with  her.  He  sat  in  the  shadow,  waiting.  He 
did  not  want  to  go  home  and  leave  her  to  what  she 
might  have  to  face.  There  was  a  chance  she  would 
ask  for  him.  He  wanted  to  be  near,  in  that  case. 

He  sat  in  the  shadow,  on  the  bench.  The  night 
watchman  went  by  twice  and  stared  at  him.  At 
last  he  asked  K.  to  mind  the  door  until  he  got  some 
coffee. 

"One  of  the  staff's  been  hurt,"  he  explained.  "  If 
I  don't  get  some  coffee  now,  I  won't  get  any." 

K.  promised  to  watch  the  door. 

A  desperate  thing  had  occurred  to  Carlotta.  Some- 
how, she  had  not  thought  of  it  before.  Now  she  won- 
dered how  she  could  have  failed  to  think  of  it.  If 
only  she  could  find  him  and  he  would  do  it!  She 
would  go  down  on  her  knees  —  would  tell  him  every- 
thing, if  only  he  would  consent. 

When  she  found  him  on  his  bench,  however,  she 
passed  him  by.  She  had  a  terrible  fear  that  he 
might  go  away  if  she  put  the  thing  to  him  first.  He 
clung  hard  to  his  new  identity. 

So  first  she  went  to  the  staff  and  confronted  them. 
They  were  men  of  courage,  only  declining  to  under- 
take what  they  considered  hopeless  work.  The  one 
man  among  them  who  might  have  done  the  thing 
with  any  chance  of  success  lay  stricken.  Not  one 
among  them  but  would  have  given  of  his  best  —  only 
his  best  was  not  good  enough. 

325 


"  It  would  be  the  Edwardes  operation,  would  n't 
it?"  demanded  Carlotta. 

The  staff  was  bewildered.  There  were  no  rules  to 
cover  such  conduct  on  the  part  of  a  nurse.  One  of 
them  *rf*  Pfeiffer  again,  by  chance  —  replied  rather 
heavily :  — 

"If  any,  it  would  be  the  Edwardes  operation." 

"  Would  Dr.  Edwardes  himself  be  able  to  do  any- 
thing?" 

This  was  going  a  little  far. 

"Possibly.  One  chance  in  a  thousand,  perhaps. 
But  Edwardes  is  dead.  How  did  this  thing  happen, 
Miss  Harrison?" 

She  ignored  his  question.  Her  face  was  ghastly, 
save  for  the  trace  of  rouge;  her  eyes  were  red- 
rimmed. 

"Dr.  Edwardes  is  sitting  on  a  bench  in  the  hall 
outside!"  she  announced. 

Her  voice  rang  out.  K.  heard  her  and  raised  his 
head.  His  attitude  was  weary,  resigned.  The  thing 
had  come,  then!  He  was  to  take  up  the  old  burden. 
The  girl  had  told. 

Dr.  Ed  had  sent  for  Sidney.  Max  was  still  un- 
conscious. Ed  remembered  about  her  when,  tracing 
his  brother's  career  from  his  babyhood  to  man's 
estate  and  to  what  seemed  now  to  be  its  ending,  he 
had  remembered  that  Max  was  very  fond  of  Sidney. 
He  had  hoped  that  Sidney  would  take  him  and  do 
for  him  what  he,  Ed,  had  failed  to  do. 

326 


So  Sidney  was  summoned. 

She  thought  it  was  another  operation,  and  he* 
spirit  was  just  a  little  weary.  But  her  courage  was 
indomitable.  She  forced  her  shoes  on  her  tired  feet, 
and  bathed  her  face  in  cold  water  to  rouse  herself. 

The  night  watchman  was  in  the  hall.  He  was  fond 
of  Sidney;  she  always  smiled  at  him;  and,  on  his 
morning  rounds  at  six  o'clock  to  waken  the  nurses, 
her  voice  was  always  amiable.  So  she  found  him  in 
the  hall,  holding  a  cup  of  tepid  coffee.  He  was  old 
and  bleary,  unmistakably  dirty  too  —  but  he  had 
divined  Sidney's  romance. 

''Coffee!   For  me?"   She  was  astonished. 

"Drink  it.    You  have  n't  had  much  sleep." 

She  took  it  obediently,  but  over  the  cup  her  eyes 
searched  his. 

"There  is  something  wrong,  daddy." 

That  was  his  name,  among  the  nurses.  He  had 
had  another  name,  but  it  was  lost  in  the  mists  of 
years. 

"Get  it  down." 

So  she  finished  it,  not  without  anxiety  that  she 
might  be  needed.  But  daddy's  attentions  were  for 
few,  and  not  to  be  lightly  received. 

"Can  you  stand  a  piece  of  bad  news?" 

Strangely,  her  first  thought  was  of  K. 

"There  has  been  an  accident.    Dr.  Wilson  — " 

"Which  one?" 

"Dr.  Max  —  has  been  hurt.    It  ain't  much, 
I  guess  you'd  like  to  know  it." 

327 


"Where  is  he?" 

"Downstairs,  in  Seventeen." 

So  she  went  down  alone  to  the  room  where  Dr. 
Ed  sat  in  a  chair,  with  his  untidy  bag  beside  him  on 
the  floor,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  a  straight  figure  on  the 
bed.  When  he  saw  Sidney,  he  got  up  and  put  his 
arms  around  her.  His  eyes  told  her  the  truth  before 
he  told  her  anything.  She  hardly  listened  to  what 
he  said.  The  fact  was  all  that  concerned  her  —  that 
her  lover  was  dying  there,  so  near  that  she  could 
touch  him  with  her  hand,  so  far  away  that  no  voice, 
no  caress  of  hers,  could  reach  him. 

The  why  would  come  later.  Now  she  could  only 
stand,  with  Dr.  Ed's  arms  about  her,  and  wait. 

"If  they  would  only  do  something!"  Sidney's 
voice  sounded  strange  to  her  ears. 

"There  is  nothing  to  do." 

But  that,  it  seemed,  was  wrong.  For  suddenly 
Sidney's  small  world,  which  had  always  sedately 
revolved  in  one  direction,  began  to  move  the  other 
way. 

The  door  opened,  and  the  staff  came  in.  But  where 
before  they  had  moved  heavily,  with  drooped  heads, 
now  they  came  quickly,  as  men  with  a  purpose. 
There  was  a  tall  man  in  a  white  coat  with  them.  He 
ordered  them  about  like  children,  and  they  hastened 
to  do  his  will.  At  first  Sidney  only  knew  that  now, 
at  last,  they  were  going  to  do  something  —  the  tall 
man  was  going  to  do  something.  He  stood  with  his 
back  to  Sidney,  and  gave  orders. 

328 


The  heaviness  of  inactivity  lifted.  The  room 
buzzed.  The  nurses  stood  by,  while  the  staff  did 
nurses'  work.  The  senior  surgical  interne,  essaying 
assistance,  was  shoved  aside  by  the  senior  surgical 
consultant,  and  stood  by,  aggrieved. 

It  was  the  Lamb,  after  all,  who  brought  the  news 
to  Sidney.  The  new  activity  had  caught  Dr.  Ed,  and 
she  was  alone  now,  her  face  buried  against  the  back 
of  a  chair. 

"There'll  be  something  doing  now,  Miss  Page/' 
he  offered. 

"What  are  they  going  to  do?" 

"Going  after  the  bullet.  Do  you  know  who's  go- 
ing to  do  it?'* 

His  voice  echoed  the  subdued  excitement  of  the 
room  —  excitement  and  new  hope. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  Edwardes,  the  surgeon?  — • 
the  Edwardes  operation,  you  know.  Well,  he's 
here.  It  sounds  like  a  miracle.  They  found  him  sit- 
ting on  a  bench  in  the  hall  downstairs." 

Sidney  raised  her  head,  but  she  could  not  see  the 
miraculously  found  Edwardes.  She  could  see  the 
familiar  faces  of  the  staff,  and  that  other  face  on 
the  pillow,  and  —  she  gave  a  little  cry.  There  was 
K. !  How  like  him  to  be  there,  to  be  wherever  any 
one  was  in  trouble !  Tears  came  to  her  eyes  —  the 
first  tears  she  had  shed. 

As  if  her  eyes  had  called  him,  he  looked  up  and 
saw  her.  He  came  toward  her  at  once.  The  staff 
stood  back  to  let  him  pass,  and  gazed  after  him. 

329 


The  wonder  of  what  had  happened  was  growing  on 
them. 

K.  stood  beside  Sidney,  and  looked  down  at  her. 
Just  at  first  it  seemed  as  if  he  found  nothing  to  say. 
Then:  — 

"There 's  just  a  chance,  Sidney  dear.  Don't  count 
too  much  on  it." 

"I  have  got  to  count  on  it.  If  I  don't,  I  shall 
die." 

If  a  shadow  passed  over  his  face,  no  one  saw 
it. 

"  I  '11  not  ask  you  to  go  back  to  your  room.  If  you 
will  wait  somewhere  near,  I  '11  see  that  you  have 
immediate  word." 

"I  am  going  to  the  operating-room." 

"Not  to  the  operating-room.    Somewhere  near." 

His  steady  voice  controlled  her  hysteria.  But 
she  resented  it.  She  was  not  herself,  of  course,  what 
with  strain  and  weariness. 

"I  shall  ask  Dr.  Edwardes." 

He  was  puzzled  for  a  moment.  Then  he  under- 
stood. After  all,  it  was  as  well.  Whether  she  knew 
him  as  Le  Moyne  or  as  Edwardes  mattered  very 
little,  after  all.  The  thing  that  really  mattered  was 
that  he  must  try  to  save  Wilson  for  her.  If  he  failed 
—  It  ran  through  his  mind  that  if  he  failed  she 
might  hate  him  the  rest  of  her  life  —  not  for  him- 
self, but  for  his  failure:  that,  whichever  way  things 
went,  he  must  lose. 

"Dr.  Edwardes  says  you  are  to  stay  away  from 
330 


the  operation,  but  to  remain  near.  He  —  he  prom- 
ises to  call  you  if  —  things  go  wrong." 

She  had  to  be  content  with  that. 

Nothing  about  that  night  was  real  to  Sidney.  She 
sat  in  the  anaesthetizing- room,  and  after  a  time  she 
knew  that  she  was  not  alone.  There  was  somebody 
else.  She  realized  dully  that  Carlotta  was  there,  too, 
pacing  up  and  down  the  little  room.  She  was 
never  sure,  for  instance,  whether  she  imagined  it, 
or  whether  Carlotta  really  stopped  before  her  and 
surveyed  her  with  burning  eyes. 

"So  you  thought  he  was  going  to  marry  you!" 
said  Carlotta  —  or  the  dream.  "Well,  you  see  he 
isn't." 

Sidney  tried  to  answer,  and  failed  —  or  that  was 
the  way  the  dream  went. 

"If  you  had  enough  character,  I'd  think  you 
did  it.  How  do  I  know  you  did  n't  follow  us,  and 
shoot  him  as  he  left  the  room?" 

It  must  have  been  reality,  after  all;  for  Sidney's 
numbed  mind  grasped  the  essential  fact  here,  and 
held  on  to  it.  He  had  been  out  with  Carlotta.  He  had 
promised  —  sworn  that  this  should  not  happen.  It 
had  happened.  It  surprised  her.  It  seemed  as  if 
nothing  more  could  hurt  her. 

In  the  movement  to  and  from  the  operating- 
room,  the  door  stood  open  for  a  moment.  A  tall 
figure  —  how  much  it  looked  like  K. !  —  straight- 
ened and  held  out  something  in  its  hand. 

"The  bullet!"  said  Carlotta  in  a  whisper. 


Then  more  waiting,  a  stir  of  movement  in  the 
room  beyond  the  closed  door.  Carlotta  was  stand- 
ing, her  face  buried  in  her  hands,  against  the  door. 
Sidney  suddenly  felt  sorry  for  her.  She  cared  a  great 
deal.  It  must  be  tragic  to  care  like  that!  She  herself 
was  not  caring  much;  she  was  too  numb. 

Beyond,  across  the  courtyard,  was  the  stable. 
Before  the  day  of  the  motor  ambulances,  horses  had 
waited  there  for  their  summons,  eager  as  fire  horses, 
heads  lifted  to  the  gong.  When  Sidney  saw  the  out- 
line of  the  stable  roof,  she  knew  that  it  was  dawn. 
The  city  still  slept,  but  the  torturing  night  was 
over.  And  in  the  gray  dawn  the  staff,  looking  gray 
too,  and  elderly  and  weary,  came  out  through  the 
closed  door  and  took  their  hushed  way  toward  the 
elevator.  They  were  talking  among  themselves. 
Sidney,  straining  her  ears,  gathered  that  they  had 
seen  a  miracle,  and  that  the  wonder  was  still  on 
them. 

Carlotta  followed  them  out. 

Almost  on  their  heels  came  K.  He  was  in  the  white 
coat,  and  more  and  more  he  looked  like  the  man 
who  had  raised  up  from  his  work  and  held  out  some- 
thing in  his  hand.  Sidney's  head  was  aching  and 
confused. 

She  sat  there  in  her  chair,  looking  small  and  child- 
ish. The  dawn  was  morning  now  —  horizontal  rays 
of  sunlight  on  the  stable  roof  and  across  the  window- 
sill  of  the  ansesthetizing-room,  where  a  row  of  bottles 
sat  on  a  clean  towel. 

332 


The  tall  man  —  or  was  it  K.  ?  —  looked  at  her,  and 
then  reached  up  and  turned  off  the  electric  light. 
Why,  it  was  K.,  of  course;  and  he  was  putting  out 
the  hall  light  before  he  went  upstairs.  When  the 
light  was  out  everything  was  gray.  She  could  not 
see.  She  slid  very  quietly  out  of  her  chair,  and  lay 
at  his  feet  in  a  dead  faint. 

K.  carried  her  to  the  elevator.  He  held  her  as  he 
had  held  her  that  day  at  the  park  when  she  fell  in 
the  river,  very  carefully,  tenderly,  as  one  holds 
something  infinitely  precious.  Not  until  he  had 
placed  her  on  her  bed  did  she  open  her  eyes.  But 
she  was  conscious  before  that.  She  was  so  tired, 
and  to  be  carried  like  that,  in  strong  arms,  not  know- 
ing where  one  was  going,  or  caring  — 

The  nurse  he  had  summoned  hustled  out  for 
aromatic  ammonia.  Sidney,  lying  among  her  pil- 
lows, looked  up  at  K. 

"How  is  he? " 

"A  little  better.   There's  a  chance,  dear." 

"  I  have  been  so  mixed  up.  All  the  time  I  was  sit- 
ting waiting,  I  kept  thinking  that  it  was  you  who 
were  operating!  Will  he  really  get  well?" 

"It  looks  promising." 

"I  should  like  to  thank  Dr.  Edwardes." 

The  nurse  was  a  long  time  getting  the  ammonia. 
There  was  so  much  to  talk  about:  that  Dr.  Max  had 
been  out  with  Carlotta  Harrison,  and  had  been  shot 
by  a  jealous  woman;  the  inexplicable  return  to  life 
of  the  great  Edwardes;  and  —  a  fact  the  nurse  her- 

333 


self  was  willing  to  vouch  for,  and  that  thrilled  the 
training-school  to  the  core  —  that  this  very  Ed- 
wardes,  newly  risen,  as  it  were,  and  being  a  miracle 
himself  as  well  as  performing  one,  this  very  Ed- 
wardes,  carrying  Sidney  to  her  bed  and  putting  her 
down,  had  stealthily  kissed  her  on  her  white  fore- 
head. 

The  training-school  doubted  this.  How  could  he 
know  Sidney  Page?  And,  after  all,  the  nurse  had 
only  seen  it  in  the  mirror,  being  occupied  at  the  time 
in  seeing  if  her  cap  was  straight.  The  school,  there- 
fore, accepted  the  miracle,  but  refused  the  kiss. 

The  miracle  was  no  miracle,  of  course.  But  some- 
thing had  happened  to  K.  that  savored  of  the  mar- 
velous. His  faith  in  himself  was  coming  back  —  not 
strongly,  with  a  rush,  but  with  all  humility.  He  had 
been  loath  to  take  up  the  burden ;  but,  now  that  he 
had  it,  he  breathed  a  sort  of  inarticulate  prayer  to 
be  able  to  carry  it. 

And,  since  men  have  looked  for  signs  since  the  be- 
ginning of  time,  he  too  asked  for  a  sign.  Not,  of 
course,  that  he  put  it  that  way,  or  that  he  was  mak- 
ing terms  with  Providence.  It  was  like  this:  if  Wil- 
son got  well,  he  'd  keep  on  working.  He  'd  feel  that, 
perhaps,  after  all,  this  was  meant.  If  Wilson  died  - 

Sidney  held  out  her  hand  to  him. 

"What  should  I  do  without  you,  K.?"  she  asked 
wistfully. 

"All  you  have  to  do  is  to  want  me." 
354 


His  voice  was  not  too  steady,  and  he  took  her 
pulse  in  a  most  businesslike  way  to  distract  her  at- 
tention from  it. 

1  'How  very  many  things  you  know!  You  are 
quite  professional  about  pulses." 

Even  then  he  did  not  tell  her.  He  was  not  sure,  to 
be  frank,  that  she'd  be  interested.  Now,  with  Wil- 
son as  he  was,  was  no  time  to  obtrude  his  own  story. 
There  was  time  enough  for  that. 

''Will  you  drink  some  beef  tea  if  I  send  it  to  you?" 

"I'm  not  hungry.    I  will,  of  course." 

"And  —  will  you  try  to  sleep?" 

"Sleep,  while  he— " 

"  I  promise  to  tell  you  if  there  is  any  change.  I 
shall  stay  with  him." 

" I'll  try  to  sleep." 

But,  as  he  rose  from  the  chair  beside  her  low  bed, 
she  put  out  her  hand  to  him. 

"K." 

"Yes,  dear." 

"  He  was  out  with  Carlotta.  He  promised,  and  he 
broke  his  promise." 

"There  may  have  been  reasons.  Suppose  we  wait 
until  he  can  explain." 

"How  can  he  explain?"  And,  when  he  hesitated: 
"  I  bring  all  my  troubles  to  you,  as  if  you  had  none. 
Somehow,  I  can't  go  to  Aunt  Harriet,  and  of  course 
mother  —  Carlotta  cares  a  great  deal  for  him.  She 
said  that  I  shot  him.  Does  any  one  really  think 
that?" 

335 


"Of  course  not.    Please  stop  thinking." 

"But  who  did,  K.?  He  had  so  many  friends,  and 
no  enemies  that  I  knew  of." 

Her  mind  seemed  to  stagger  about  in  a  circle, 
making  little  excursions,  but  always  coming  back  to 
the  one  thing. 

"Some  drunken  visitor  to  the  road-house." 

He  could  have  killed  himself  for  the  words  the  mo- 
ment they  were  spoken. 

"They  were  at  a  road-house?" 

"  It  is  not  just  to  judge  any  one  before  you  hear 
the  story." 

She  stirred  restlessly. 

"What  time  is  it?" 

"Half-past  six." 

"  I  must  get  up  and  go  on  duty." 

He  was  glad  to  be  stern  with  her.  He  forbade  her 
rising.  When  the  nurse  came  in  with  the  belated 
ammonia,  she  found  K.  making  an  arbitrary  ruling, 
and  Sidney  looking  up  at  him  mutinously. 

"Miss  Page  is  not  to  go  on  duty  to-day.  She  is  to 
stay  in  bed  until  further  orders." 

"Very  well,  Dr.  Edwardes." 

The  confusion  in  Sidney's  mind  cleared  away  sud- 
denly. K.  was  Dr.  Edwardes!  It  was  K.  who  had 
performed  the  miracle  operation  —  K.  who  had 
dared  and  perhaps  won!  Dear  K.,  with  his  steady 
eyes  and  his  long  surgeon's  fingers!  Then,  because 
she  seemed  to  see  ahead  as  well  as  back  into  the  past 
in  that  flash  that  comes  to  the  drowning  and  to  those 

336 


recovering  from  shock,  and  because  she  knew  that 
now  the  little  house  would  no  longer  be  home  to  K., 
she  turned  her  face  into  her  pillow  and  cried.  Her 
world  had  fallen  indeed.  Her  lover  was  not  true, 
and  might  be  dying ;  her  friend  would  go  away  to  his 
own  world,  which  was  not  the  Street. 

K.  left  her  at  last  and  went  back  to  Seventeen, 
where  Dr.  Ed  still  sat  by  the  bed.  Inaction  was 
telling  on  him.  If  Max  would  only  open  his  eyes, 
so  he  could  tell  him  what  had  been  in  his  mind  all 
these  years  —  his  pride  in  him  and  all  that. 

With  a  sort  of  belated  desire  to  make  up  for  where 
he  had  failed,  he  put  the  bag  that  had  been  Max's 
bete  noir  on  the  bedside  table,  and  began  to  clear  it  of 
rubbish  —  odd  bits  of  dirty  cotton,  the  tubing  from 
a  long  defunct  stethoscope,  glass  from  a  broken  bot- 
tle, a  scrap  of  paper  on  which  was  a  memorandum, 
in  his  illegible  writing,  to  send  Max  a  check  for  his 
graduating  suit.  When  K.  came  in,  he  had  the  old 
dog-collar  in  his  hand. 

"Belonged  to  an  old  collie  of  ours,"  he  said  heav- 
ily. "Milkman  ran  over  him  and  killed  him.  Max 
chased  the  wagon  and  licked  the  driver  with  his  own 
whip." 

His  face  worked. 

" Poor  old  Bobby  Burns!"  he  said.  "We'd  raised 
him  from  a  pup.  Got  him  in  a  grape-basket." 

The  sick  man  opened  his  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

MAX  had  rallied  well,  and  things  looked  bright  for 
him.  His  patient  did  not  need  him,  but  K.  was 
anxious  to  find  Joe;  so  he  telephoned  the  gas  office 
and  got  a  day  off.  The  sordid  little  tragedy  was  easy 
to  reconstruct,  except  that,  like  Joe,  K.  did  not  be- 
lieve in  the  innocence  of  the  excursion  to  Schwit- 
ter's.  His  spirit  was  heavy  with  the  conviction  that 
he  had  saved  Wilson  to  make  Sidney  ultimately 
wretched. 

For  the  present,  at  least,  K.'s  revealed  identity 
was  safe.  Hospitals  keep  their  secrets  well.  And  it 
is  doubtful  if  the  Street  would  have  been  greatly  con- 
cerned even  had  it  known.  It  had  never  heard  of 
Edwardes,  of  the  Edwardes  clinic  or  the  Edwardes 
operation.  Its  medical  knowledge  comprised  the 
two  Wilsons  and  the  osteopath  around  the  corner. 
When,  as  would  happen  soon,  it  learned  of  Max  Wil- 
son's injury,  it  would  be  more  concerned  with  his 
chances  of  recovery  than  with  the  manner  of  it.  That 
was  as  it  should  be. 

But  Joe's  affair  with  Sidney  had  been  the  talk  of 
the  neighborhood.  If  the  boy  disappeared,  a  scandal 
would  be  inevitable.  Twenty  people  had  seen  him  at 
Sch witter 's  and  would  know  him  again. 

To  save  Joe,  then,  was  K.'s  first  care. 

At  first  it  seemed  as  if  the  boy  had  frustrated  him. 
338 


He  had  not  been  home  all  night.  Christine,  waylay- 
ing K.  in  the  little  hall,  told  him  that. 

"Mrs.  Drummond  was  here/'  she  said.  "She  is 
almost  frantic.  She  says  Joe  has  not  been  home  all 
night.  She  says  he  looks  up  to  you,  and  she  thought 
if  you  could  find  him  and  would  talk  to  him  — " 

"Joe  was  with  me  last  night.  We  had  supper  at 
the  White  Springs  Hotel.  Tell  Mrs.  Drummond  he 
was  in  good  spirits,  and  that  she's  not  to  worry.  I 
feel  sure  she  will  hear  from  him  to  day.  Something 
went  wrong  with  his  car,  perhaps,  after  he  left 
me." 

He  bathed  and  shaved  hurriedly.  Katie  brought 
his  coffee  to  his  room,  and  he  drank  it  standing.  He 
was  working  out  a  theory  about  the  boy.  Beyond 
Schwitter's  the  highroad  stretched,  broad  and  invit- 
ing, across  the  State.  Either  he  wrould  have  gone 
that  way,  his  little  car  eating  up  the  miles  all  that 
night,  or —  K.  would  not  formulate  his  fear  of 
what  might  have  happened,  even  to  himself. 

As  he  went  down  the  Street,  he  saw  Mrs.  McKee 
in  her  doorway,  with  a  little  knot  of  people  around 
her.  The  Street  was  getting  the  night's  news. 

He  rented  a  car  at  a  local  garage,  and  drove  him- 
self out  into  the  country.  He  was  not  minded  to 
have  any  eyes  on  him  that  day.  He  went  to  Schwit- 
ter's first.  Schwitter  himself  was  not  in  sight.  Bill 
was  scrubbing  the  porch,  and  a  farmhand  was  gath- 
ering bottles  from  the  grass  into  a  box.  The  dead 
lanterns  swung  in  the  morning  air,  and  from  back 

339 


on  the  hill  came  the  staccato  sounds  of  a  reaping- 
machine. 

"  Where 's  Schwitter?" 

"At  the  barn  with  the  missus.  Got  a  boy  back 
there." 

Bill  grinned.  He  recognized  K.,  and,  mopping  dry 
a  part  of  the  porch,  shoved  a  chair  on  it. 

"Sit  down.  Well,  how's  the  man  who  got  his  last 
night?  Dead?" 

"No." 

"County  detectives  were  here  bright  and  early. 
After  the  lady's  husband.  I  guess  we  lose  our  license 
over  this." 

"What  does  Schwitter  say?" 

"Oh,  him!"  Bill's  tone  was  full  of  disgust.  "He 
hopes  we  do.  He  hates  the  place.  Only  man  I  ever 
knew  that  hated  money.  That 's  what  this  house  is 
—  money." 

"  Bill,  did  you  see  the  man  who  fired  that  shot  last 
night?" 

A  sort  of  haze  came  over  Bill's  face,  as  if  he  had 
dropped  a  curtain  before  his  eyes.  But  his  reply 
came  promptly:  — 

"Surest  thing  in  the  world.  Close  to  him  as  you  are 
to  me.  Dark  man,  about  thirty,  small  mustache  — 

"Bill,  you're  lying,  and  I  know  it.  Where  is  he?" 

The  barkeeper  kept  his  head,  but  his  color 
changed. 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  him."  He  thrust 
his  mop  into  the  pail.  K.  rose. 

340 


"Does  Schwitter  know?" 

"He  does  n't  know  nothing.  He 's  been  out  at  the 
barn  all  night." 

The  farmhand  had  filled  his  box  and  disappeared 
around  the  corner  of  the  house.  K.  put  his  hand  on 
Bill's  shirt-sleeved  arm. 

"We've  got  to  get  him  away  from  here,  Bill." 

"Get  who  away?" 

"You  know.  The  county  men  may  come  back  to 
search  the  premises." 

"How  do  I  know  you  are  n't  one  of  them?" 

"  I  guess  you  know  I  'm  not.  He 's  a  friend  of  mine. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  followed  him  here;  but  I  was 
too  late.  Did  he  take  the  revolver  away  with  him?  " 

"I  took  it  from  him.     It's  under  the  bar." 

"Get  it  for  me." 

In  sheer  relief,  K.'s  spirits  rose.  After  all,  it  was 
a  good  world :  Tillie  with  her  baby  in  her  arms ;  Wil- 
son conscious  and  rallying;  Joe  safe,  and,  without 
the  revolver,  secure  from  his  own  remorse.  Other 
things  there  were,  too  —  the  feel  of  Sidney's  inert 
body  in  his  arms,  the  way  she  had  turned  to  him  in 
trouble.  It  was  not  what  he  wanted,  this  last,  but  it 
was  worth  while.  The  reaping-machine  was  in  sight 
now;  it  had  stopped  on  the  hillside.  The  men  were 
drinking  out  of  a  bucket  that  flashed  in  the  sun. 

There  was  one  thing  wrong.  What  had  come  over 
WTilson,  to  do  so  reckless  a  thing?  K.,  who  was  a  one- 
woman  man,  could  not  explain  it. 

From  inside  the  bar  Bill  took  a  careful  survey  of 
341 


Le  Moyne.  He  noted  his  tall  figure  and  shabby  suit, 
the  slight  stoop,  the  hair  graying  over  his  ears.  Bar- 
keepers know  men:  that's  a  part  of  the  job.  After 
his  survey  he  went  behind  the  bar  and  got  the  re- 
volver from  under  an  overturned  pail. 

K.  thrust  it  into  his  pocket. 

"Now/'  he  said  quietly,  " where  is  he?" 

"In  my  room  —  top  of  the  house." 

K.  followed  Bill  up  the  stairs.  He  remembered 
the  day  when  he  had  sat  waiting  in  the  parlor,  and 
had  heard  Tillie's  slow  step  coming  down.  And  last 
night  he  himself  had  carried  down  Wilson's  uncon- 
scious figure.  Surely  the  wages  of  sin  were  wretched- 
ness and  misery.  None  of  it  paid.  No  one  got  away 
with  it. 

The  room  under  the  eaves  was  stifling.  An  un- 
made bed  stood  in  a  corner.  From  nails  in  the  raft- 
ers hung  Bill's  holiday  wardrobe.  A  tin  cup  and  a 
cracked  pitcher  of  spring  water  stood  on  the  win- 
dow-sill. 

Joe  was  sitting  in  the  corner  farthest  from  the 
window.  When  the  door  swung  open,  he  looked  up. 
He  showed  no  interest  on  seeing  K.,  who  had  to 
stoop  to  enter  the  low  room. 

"Hello,  Joe." 

"  I  thought  you  were  the  police." 

"Not  much.  Open  that  window,  Bill.  This  place 
is  stifling." 

"Is  he  dead?" 

"No,  indeed." 

342 


"I  wish  I'd  killed  him!" 

"Oh,  no,  you  don't.  You're  damned  glad  you 
did  n't,  and  so  am  I." 

"What  will  they  do  with  me?" 

"Nothing  until  they  find  you.  I  came  to  talk 
about  that.  They'd  better  not  find  you." 

"Huh!" 

"It's  easier  than  it  sounds." 

K.  sat  down  on  the  bed. 

"If  I  only  had  some  money!"  he  said.  "But 
never  mind  about  that,  Joe;  I'll  get  some." 

Loud  calls  from  below  took  Bill  out  of  the  room. 
As  he  closed  the  door  behind  him,  K.'s  voice  took  on 
a  new  tone :  — 

"Joe,  why  did  you  do  it?" 

"You  know." 

"You  saw  him  with  somebody  at  the  White 
Springs,  and  followed  them?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  know  who  was  with  him?" 

"Yes,  and  so  do  you.  Don't  go  into  that.  I  did 
it,  and  I  '11  stand  by  it." 

"Has  it  occurred  to  you  that  you  made  a  mis- 
take?" 

"Go  and  tell  that  to  somebody  who'll  believe 
you!"  he  sneered.  "They  came  here  and  took  a 
room.  I  met  him  coming  out  of  it.  I  'd  do  it  again 
if  I  had  a  chance,  and  do  it  better." 

"It  was  not  Sidney." 

"Aw,  chuck  it!" 

343 


"  It's  a  fact.  I  got  here  not  two  minutes  after  you 
left.  The  girl  was  still  there.  It  was  some  one  else. 
Sidney  was  not  out  of  the  hospital  last  night.  She 
attended  a  lecture,  and  then  an  operation." 

Joe  listened.  It  was  undoubtedly  a  relief  to  him 
to  know  that  it  had  not  been  Sidney;  but  if  K.  ex- 
pected any  remorse,  he  did  not  get  it. 

"  If  he  is  that  sort,  he  deserves  what  he  got,"  said 
the  boy  grimly. 

And  K.  had  no  reply.  But  Joe  was  glad  to  talk. 
The  hours  he  had  spent  alone  in  the  little  room  had 
been  very  bitter,  and  preceded  by  a  time  that  he 
shuddered  to  remember.  K.  got  it  by  degrees  —  his 
descent  of  the  staircase,  leaving  Wilson  lying  on  the 
landing  above;  his  mad  excursion  into  the  darkness, 
until  his  gasolene  gave  out ;  his  resolve  to  walk  back 
and  surrender  himself  at  Sch witter 's,  so  that  there 
could  be  no  mistake  as  to  who  had  committed  the 
crime. 

"  I  intended  to  write  a  confession  and  then  shoot 
myself,"  he  told  K.  "  But  the  barkeeper  got  my  gun 
out  of  my  pocket.  And  — ' 

After  a  pause:  "Does  she  know  who  did  it?" 

"Sidney?   No." 

"Then,  if  he  gets  better,  she'll  marry  him  any- 
how." 

"Possibly.  That's  not  up  to  us,  Joe.  The  thing 
we've  got  to  do  is  to  hush  the  thing  up,  and  get 
you  away." 

"I'd  go  to  Cuba,  but  I  have  n't  the  money." 

344 


K.  rose.    "I  think  I  can  get  it." 

He  turned  in  the  doorway. 

''Sidney  need  never  know  who  did  it." 

"I'm  not  ashamed  of  it."  But  his  face  showed 
relief. 

There  are  times  when  some  cataclysm  tears  down 
the  walls  of  reserve  between  men.  That  time  had 
come  for  Joe,  and  to  a  lesser  extent  for  K.  The  boy 
rose  and  followed  him  to  the  door. 

"Why  don't  you  tell  her  the  whole  thing?  —  the 
whole  filthy  story? "  he  asked.  "She'd  never  look  at 
him  again.  You  're  crazy  about  her.  I  have  n't  got 
a  chance.  It  would  give  you  one." 

"  I  want  her,  God  knows!"  said  K.  "But  not  that 
way,  boy." 

Schwitter  had  taken  in  five  hundred  dollars  the 
previous  day. 

"Five  hundred  gross,"  the  little  man  hastened  to 
explain.  "But  you're  right,  Mr.  Le  Moyne.  And 
I  guess  it  would  please  her.  It 's  going  hard  with  her, 
just  now,  that  she  has  n't  any  women  friends  about. 
It's  in  the  safe,  in  cash;  I  have  n't  had  time  to  take 
it  to  the  bank."  He  seemed  to  apologize  to  himself 
for  the  unbusinesslike  proceeding  of  lending  an  en- 
tire day's  gross  receipts  on  no  security.  "  It's  better 
to  get  him  away,  of  course.  It's  good  business.  I 
have  tried  to  have  an  orderly  place.  If  they  arrest 
him  here  — " 

His  voice  trailed  off.  He  had  come  a  far  way  from 
the  day  he  had  walked  down  the  Street  and  eyed 

345 


its  poplars  with  appraising  eyes  —  a  far  way.  Now 
he  had  a  son,  and  the  child's  mother  looked  at  him 
with  tragic  eyes.  It  was  arranged  that  K.  should  go 
back  to  town,  returning  late  that  night  to  pick  up 
Joe  at  a  lonely  point  on  the  road,  and  to  drive  him 
to  a  railroad  station.  But,  as  it  happened,  he  went 
back  that  afternoon. 

He  had  told  Schwitter  he  w^ould  be  at  the  hospital, 
and  the  message  found  him  there.  Wilson  was  hold- 
ing his  own,  conscious  now  and  making  a  hard  fight. 
The  message  from  Schwitter  was  very  brief:  — 

"Something  has  happened,  and  Tillie  wants  you. 
I  don't  like  to  trouble  you  again,  but  she  —  wants 
you." 

K.  was  rather  gray  of  face  by  that  time,  having 
had  no  sleep  and  little  food  since  the  day  before. 
But  he  got  into  the  rented  machine  again  —  its 
rental  was  running  up ;  he  tried  to  forget  it  —  and 
turned  it  toward  Hillfoot.  But  first  of  all  he  drove 
back  to  the  Street,  and  walked  without  ringing 
into  Mrs.  McKee's. 

Neither  a  year's  time  nor  Mrs.  McKee's  approach- 
ing change  of  state  had  altered  the  "mealing"  house. 
The  ticket-punch  still  lay  on  the  hat-rack  in  the 
hall.  Through  the  rusty  screen  of  the  back  parlor 
window  one  viewed  the  spiraea,  still  in  need  of  spray- 
ing. Mrs.  McKee  herself  was  in  the  pantry,  placing 
one  slice  of  tomato  and  three  small  lettuce  leaves  on 
each  of  an  interminable  succession  of  plates. 

K.,  who  was  privileged,  walked  back. 
346 


K 


"I've  got  a  car  at  the  door,"  he  announced, 
"and  there's  nothing  so  extravagant  as  an  empty 
seat  in  an  automobile.  Will  you  take  a  ride?" 

Mrs.  McKee  agreed.  Being  of  the  class  who  be- 
lieve a  boudoir  cap  the  ideal  headdress  for  a  motor- 
car, she  apologized  for  having  none. 

"If  I'd  known  you  were  coming  I  would  have 
borrowed  a  cap,"  she  said.  "Miss  Tripp,  third  floor 
front,  has  a  nice  one.  If  you '11  take  me  in  my  toque — " 

K.  said  he'd  take  her  in  her  toque,  and  waited 
with  some  anxiety,  having  not  the  faintest  idea  what 
a  toque  was.  He  was  not  without  other  anxieties. 
What  if  the  sight  of  Tillie's  baby  did  not  do  all  that 
he  expected?  Good  women  could  be  most  cruel. 
And  Schwitter  had  been  very  vague.  But  here  K. 
was  more  sure  of  himself:  the  little  man's  voice  had 
expressed  as  exactly  as  words  the  sense  of  a  be- 
reavement that  was  not  a  grief. 

He  was  counting  on  Mrs.  McKee's  old  fondness 
for  the  girl  to  bring  them  together.  But,  as  they 
neared  the  house  with  its  lanterns  and  tables,  its 
whitewashed  stones  outlining  the  drive,  its  small 
upper  window  behind  which  Joe  was  waiting  for 
night,  his  heart  failed  him,  rather.  He  had  a  mascu- 
line dislike  for  meddling,  and  yet —  Mrs.  McKee 
had  suddenly  seen  the  name  in  the  wooden  arch  over 
the  gate:  "Schwitter's." 

"I'm  not  going  in  there,  Mr.  Le  Moyne." 

"Tillie's  not  in  the  house.  She's  back  in  the 
barn." 

347 


"In  the  barn!" 

"  She  did  n't  approve  of  all  that  went  on  there,  so 
she  moved  out.  It's  very  comfortable  and  clean;  it 
smells  of  hay.  You'd  be  surprised  how  nice  it  is." 

"The  like  of  her!"  snorted  Mrs.  McKee.  "She's 
late  with  her  conscience,  I  'm  thinking." 

"Last  night,"  K.  remarked,  hands  on  the  wheel, 
but  car  stopped,  "she  had  a  child  there.  It  —  it's 
rather  like  very  old  times,  is  n't  it?  A  man-child, 
Mrs.  McKee,  not  in  a  manger,  of  course." 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  Mrs.  McKee's 
tone,  which  had  been  fierce  at  the  beginning,  ended 
feebly. 

"  I  want  you  to  go  in  and  visit  her,  as  you  would 
any  woman  who'd  had  a  new  baby  and  needed  a 
friend.  Lie  a  little  — "  Mrs.  McKee  gasped.  "Tell 
her  the  baby 's  pretty.  Tell  her  you  've  been  wanting 
to  see  her."  His  tone  was  suddenly  stern.  "Lie  a 
little,  for  your  soul's  sake." 

She  wavered,  and  while  she  wavered  he  drove  her 
in  under  the  arch  with  the  shameful  name,  and  back 
to  the  barn.  But  there  he  had  the  tact  to  remain  in 
the  car,  and  Mrs.  McKee's  peace  with  Tillie  was 
made  alone.  When,  five  minutes  later,  she  beck- 
oned him  from  the  door  of  the  barn,  her  eyes  were 
red. 

"Come  in,  Mr.  K.,"  she  said.  "The  wife 's  dead, 
poor  thing.  They're  going  to  be  married  right 
away." 

The  clergyman  was  coming  along  the  path  with 
348 


Schwitter  at  his  heels.  K.  entered  the  barn.  At  the 
door  to  Tillie's  room  he  uncovered  his  head.  The 
child  was  asleep  at  her  breast. 

The  five  thousand  dollar  check  from  Mr.  Lorenz 
had  saved  Palmer  Howe's  credit.  On  the  strength 
of  the  deposit,  he  borrowed  a  thousand  at  the  bank 
with  which  he  meant  to  pay  his  bills,  arrears  at  the 
University  and  Country  Clubs,  a  hundred  dollars 
lost  throwing  aces  with  poker  dice,  and  various 
small  obligations  of  Christine's. 

The  immediate  result  of  the  money  was  good. 
He  drank  nothing  for  a  week,  went  into  the  details  of 
the  new  venture  with  Christine's  father,  sat  at  home 
with  Christine  on  her  balcony  in  the  evenings. 
With  the  knowledge  that  he  could  pay  his  debts,  he 
postponed  the  day.  He  liked  the  feeling  of  a  bank 
account  in  four  figures. 

The  first  evening  or  two  Christine's  pleasure  in 
having  him  there  gratified  him.  He  felt  kind,  mag- 
nanimous, almost  virtuous.  On  the  third  evening  he 
was  restless.  It  occurred  to  him  that  his  wife  was 
beginning  to  take  his  presence  as  a  matter  of  course. 
He  wanted  cold  bottled  beer.  When  he  found  that 
the  ice  was  out  and  the  beer  warm  and  flat,  he  was 
furious. 

Christine  had  been  making  a  fight,  although  her 
heart  was  only  half  in  it.  She  was  resolutely  good- 
humored,  ignored  the  past,  dressed  for  Palmer  in 
the  things  he  liked.  They  still  took  their  dinners 

349 


at  the  Lorenz  house  up  the  street.  When  she  saw 
that  the  haphazard  table  service  there  irritated  him, 
she  coaxed  her  mother  into  getting  a  butler. 

The  Street  sniffed  at  the  butler  behind  his  stately 
back.  Secretly  and  in  its  heart,  it  was  proud  of  him. 
With  a  half-dozen  automobiles,  and  Christine  Howe 
putting  on  low  neck  in  the  evenings,  and  now  a  but- 
ler, not  to  mention  Harriet  Kennedy's  Mimi,  it 
ceased  to  pride  itself  on  its  commonplaceness,  igno- 
rant of  the  fact  that  in  its  very  lack  of  affectation 
had  lain  its  charm. 

On  the  night  that  Joe  shot  Max  Wilson,  Palmer 
was  noticeably  restless.  He  had  seen  Grace  Irving 
that  day  for  the  first  time  but  once  since  the  motor 
accident.  To  do  him  justice,  his  dissipation  of  the 
past  few  months  had  not  included  women. 

The  girl  had  a  strange  fascination  for  him.  Per- 
haps she  typified  the  care-free  days  before  his  mar- 
riage; perhaps  the  attraction  was  deeper,  funda- 
mental. He  met  her  in  the  street  the  day  before  Max 
W7ilson  was  shot.  The  sight  of  her  walking  sedately 
along  in  her  shop-girl's  black  dress  had  been  enough 
to  set  his  pulses  racing.  When  he  saw  that  she 
meant  to  pass  him,  he  fell  into  step  beside  her. 

"I  believe  you  were  going  to  cut  me!" 

"I  was  in  a  hurry." 

"Still  in  the  store?" 

"Yes."  And,  after  a  second's  hesitation:  "I'm 
keeping  straight,  too." 

"How  are  you  getting  along?" 
350 


"Pretty  well.    I  Ve  had  my  salary  raised." 

" Do  you  have  to  walk  as  fast  as  this?" 

"  I  said  I  was  in  a  hurry.  Once  a  week  I  get  off  a 
little  early.  I  —  " 

He  eyed  her  suspiciously. 

"Early!  What  for?" 

"I  go  to  the  hospital.  The  Rosenfeld  boy  is  still 
there,  you  know." 

"Oh!" 

But  a  moment  later  he  burst  out  irritably:  — 

"That  was  an  accident,  Grace.  The  boy  took  the 
chance  when  he  engaged  to  drive  the  car.  I  'm  sorry, 
of  course.  I  dream  of  the  little  devil  sometimes, 
lying  there.  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,"  he  added 
magnanimously.  "I'll  stop  in  and  talk  to  Wilson. 
He  ought  to  have  done  something  before  this." 

"The  boy's  not  strong  enough  yet.  I  don't  think 
you  can  do  anything  for  him,  unless — " 

The  monstrous  injustice  of  the  thing  overcame 
her.  Palmer  and  she  walking  about,  and  the  boy 
lying  on  his  hot  bed !  She  choked. 

"Well?" 

"He  worries  about  his  mother.  If  you  could  give 
her  some  money,  it  would  help." 

"Money!   Good  Heavens  —  I  owe  everybody." 

"You  owe  him  too,  don't  you?  He'll  never  walk 
again." 

"I  can't  give  them  ten  dollars.  I  don't  see  that 
I  'm  under  any  obligation,  anyhow.  I  paid  his  board 
for  two  months  in  the  hospital." 

35i 


When  she  did  not  acknowledge  this  generosity,  — ^ 
amounting  to  forty-eight  dollars,  —  his  irritation 
grew.  Her  silence  was  an  accusation.  Her  manner 
galled  him,  into  the  bargain.  She  was  too  calm  in 
his  presence,  too  cold.  Where  she  had  once  palpi- 
tated visibly  under  his  warm  gaze,  she  was  now  self- 
possessed  and  quiet.  Where  it  had  pleased  his  pride 
to  think  that  he  had  given  her  up,  he  found  that  the 
shoe  was  on  the  other  foot. 

At  the  entrance  to  a  side  street  she  stopped. 

"I  turn  off  here." 

"May  I  come  and  see  you  sometime?" 

"No,  please." 

"That's  flat,  is  it?" 

"It  is,  Palmer." 

He  swung  around  savagely  and  left  her. 

The  next  day  he  drew  the  thousand  dollars  from 
the  bank.  A  good  many  of  his  debts  he  wanted  to 
pay  in  cash ;  there  was  no  use  putting  checks  through, 
with  incriminating  indorsements.  Also,  he  liked  the 
idea  of  carrying  a  roll  of  money  around.  The  big 
fellows  at  the  clubs  always  had  a  wad  and  peeled 
off  bills  like  skin  off  an  onion.  He  took  a  couple  of 
drinks  to  celebrate  his  approaching  immunity  from 
debt. 

He  played  auction  bridge  that  afternoon  in  a 
private  room  at  one  of  the  hotels  with  the  three 
men  he  had  lunched  with.  Luck  seemed  to  be  with 
him.  He  won  eighty  dollars,  and  thrust  it  loose  in 
his  trousers  pocket.  Money  seemed  to  bring  money ! 

352 


If  he  could  carry  the  thousand  around  for  a  day  or 
so,  something  pretty  good  might  come  of  it. 

He  had  been  drinking  a  little  all  afternoon. 
When  the  game  was  over,  he  bought  drinks  to  cele- 
brate his  victory.  The  losers  treated,  too,  to  show 
they  were  no  pikers.  Palmer  was  in  high  spirits.  He 
offered  to  put  up  the  eighty  and  throw  for  it.  The 
losers  mentioned  dinner  and  various  engagements. 

Palmer  did  not  want  to  go  home.  Christine  would 
greet  him  with  raised  eyebrows.  They  would  eat 
a  stuffy  Lorenz  dinner,  and  in  the  evening  Christine 
would  sit  in  the  lamplight  and  drive  him  mad  with 
soft  music.  He  wanted  lights,  noise,  the  smiles  of 
women.  Luck  was  with  him,  and  he  wanted  to  be 
happy. 

At  nine  o'clock  that  night  he  found  Grace.  She 
had  moved  to  a  cheap  apartment  which  she  shared 
with  two  other  girls  from  the  store.  The  others  were 
out.  It  was  his  lucky  day,  surely. 

His  drunkenness  was  of  the  mind,  mostly.  His 
muscles  were  well  controlled.  The  lines  from  his 
nose  to  the  corners  of  his  mouth  were  slightly  ac- 
centuated, his  eyes  open  a  trifle  wider  than  usual. 
That  and  a  slight  paleness  of  the  nostrils  were  the 
only  evidences  of  his  condition.  But  Grace  knew 
the  signs. 

"  You  can't  come  in." 

"Of  course  I'm  coming  in." 

She  retreated  before  him,  her  eyes  watchful.  Men 
in  his  condition  were  apt  to  be  as  quick  with  a  blow 

353 


as  with  a  caress.    But,  having  gained  his  point,  he 
was  amiable. 

"Get  your  things  on  and  come  out.  We  can  take 
in  a  roof-garden." 

"  I've  told  you  I 'm  not  doing  that  sort  of  thing." 

He  was  ugly  in  a  flash. 

"You've  got  somebody  else  on  the  string." 

"Honestly,  no.  There  —  there  has  never  been 
anybody  else,  Palmer." 

He  caught  her  suddenly  and  jerked  her  toward  him. 

"You  let  me  hear  of  anybody  else,  and  I'll  cut 
the  guts  out  of  him!" 

He  held  her  for  a  second,  his  face  black  and  fierce. 
Then,  slowly  and  inevitably,  he  drew  her  into  his 
arms.  He  was  drunk,  and  she  knew  it.  But,  in  the 
queer  loyalty  of  her  class,  he  was  the  only  man  she 
had  cared  for.  She  cared  now.  She  took  him  for  that 
moment,  felt  his  hot  kisses  on  her  mouth,  her  throat, 
submitted  while  his  rather  brutal  hands  bruised  her 
arms  in  fierce  caresses.  Then  she  put  him  from  her 
resolutely. 

"Now  you're  going." 

"The  hell  I'm  going!" 

But  he  was  less  steady  than  he  had  been.  The 
heat  of  the  little  flat  brought  more  blood  to  his  head. 
He  wavered  as  he  stood  just  inside  the  door. 

"You  must  go  back  to  your  wife." 

"She  does  n't  want  me.  She's  in  love  with  a  fel- 
low at  the  house." 

"Palmer,  hush!" 

354 


"Lemme  come  in  and  sit  down,  won't  you?" 

She  let  him  pass  her  into  the  sitting-room.  He 
dropped  into  a  chair. 

"You've  turned  me  down,  and  now  Christine  — 
she  thinks  I  don't  know.  I 'm  no  fool;  I  see  a  lot  of 
things.  I'm  no  good.  I  know  that  I've  made  her 
miserable.  But  I  made  a  merry  little  hell  for  you 
too,  and  you  don't  kick  about  it." 

"You  know  that." 

She  was  watching  him  gravely.  She  had  never 
seen  him  just  like  this.  Nothing  else,  perhaps,  could 
have  shown  her  so  well  what  a  broken  reed  he  was. 

"  I  got  you  in  wrong.  You  were  a  good  girl 
before  I  knew  you.  You're  a  good  girl  now.  I'm 
not  going  to  do  you  any  harm,  I  swear  it.  I  only 
wanted  to  take  you  out  for  a  good  time.  I  've  got 
money.  Look  here ! ' ' 

He  drew  out  the  roll  of  bills  and  showed  it  to  her. 
Her  eyes  opened  wide.  She  had  never  known  him 
to  have  much  money. 

"Lots  more  where  that  comes  from." 

A  new  look  flashed  into  her  eyes,  not  cupidity, 
but  purpose. 

She  was  instantly  cunning. 

"Are  n't  you  going  to  give  me  some  of  that?" 

"What  for?" 

"I  —  I  want  some  clothes." 

The  very  drunk  have  the  intuition  sometimes  of 
savages  or  brute  beasts. 

"You  lie." 

355 


"I  want  it  for  Johnny  Rosenfeld." 

He  thrust  it  back  into  his  pocket,  but  his  hand 
retained  its  grasp  of  it. 

"That's  it,"  he  complained.  "Don't  lemme  be 
happy  for  a  minute!  Throw  it  all  up  to  me!" 

"  You  give  me  that  for  the  Rosenfeld  boy,  and  I  '11 
go  out  with  you." 

"  If  I  give  you  all  that,  I  won't  have  any  money 
to  go  out  with!" 

But  his  eyes  were  wavering.  She  could  see  victory. 

"Take  off  enough  for  the  evening." 

But  he  drew  himself  up. 

"I'm  no  piker,"  he  said  largely.  "Whole  hog  or 
nothing.  Take  it." 

He  held  it  out  to  her,  and  from  another  pocket 
produced  the  eighty  dollars,  in  crushed  and  wrinkled 
notes. 

"It's  my  lucky  day,"  he  said  thickly.  "Plenty 
more  where  this  came  from.  Do  anything  for  you. 
Give  it  to  the  little  devil.  I—"  He  yawned.  "God, 
this  place  is  hot!" 

His  head  dropped  back  on  his  chair;  he  propped 
his  sagging  legs  on  a  stool.  She  knew  him  —  knew 
that  he  would  sleep  almost  all  night.  She  would 
have  to  make  up  something  to  tell  the  other  girls; 
but  no  matter  —  she  could  attend  to  that  later. 

She  had  never  had  a  thousand  dollars  in  her  hands 
before.  It  seemed  smaller  than  that  amount.  Per- 
haps he  had  lied  to  her.  She  paused,  in  pinning  on 
her  hat,  to  count  the  bills.  It  was  all  there. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

K.  SPENT  all  of  the  evening  of  that  day  with  Wil- 
son. He  was  not  to  go  for  Joe  until  eleven  o'clock. 
The  injured  man's  vitality  was  standing  him  in 
good  stead.  He  had  asked  for  Sidney  and  she  was 
at  his  bedside.  Dr.  Ed  had  gone. 

"I'm  going,  Max.  The  office  is  full,  they  tell 
me,"  he  said,  bending  over  the  bed.  "I'll  come  in 
later,  and  if  they'll  make  me  a  shakedown,  I  '11  stay 
with  you  to-night." 

The  answer  was  faint,  broken  but  distinct.  "Get 
some  sleep  ...  I  Ve  been  a  poor  stick  .  .  .  try  to  do 
better  —  "  His  roving  eyes  fell  on  the  dog  collar  on 
the  stand.  He  smiled,  "Good  old  Bob!"  he  said, 
and  put  his  hand  over  Dr.  Ed's,  as  it  lay  on  the  bed. 

K.  found  Sidney  in  the  room,  not  sitting,  but 
standing  by  the  window.  The  sick  man  was  dozing. 
One  shaded  light  burned  in  a  far  corner.  She  turned 
slowly  and  met  his  eyes.  It  seemed  to  K.  that  she 
looked  at  him  as  if  she  had  never  really  seen  him 
before,  and  he  was  right.  Readjustments  are  always 
difficult. 

Sidney  was  trying  to  reconcile  the  K.  she  had 
known  so  well  with  this  new  K.,  no  longer  obscure, 
although  still  shabby,  whose  height  had  suddenly 
become  presence,  whose  quiet  was  the  quiet  of  in- 
finite power. 

357 


She  was  suddenly  shy  of  him,  as  he  stood  look- 
ing down  at  her.  He  saw  the  gleam  of  her  engage- 
ment ring  on  her  finger.  It  seemed  almost  defiant. 
As  though  she  had  meant  by  wearing  it  to  empha- 
size her  belief  in  her  lover. 

They  did  not  speak  beyond  their  greeting,  until 
he  had  gone  over  the  record.  Then:  — 

"We  can't  talk  here.    I  want  to  talk  to  you,  K." 

He  led  the  way  into  the  corridor.  It  was  very 
dim.  Far  away  was  the  night  nurse's  desk,  with  its 
lamp,  its  annunciator,  its  pile  of  records.  The  pas- 
sage floor  reflected  the  light  on  glistening  boards. 

"I  have  been  thinking  until  I  am  almost  crazy, 
K.  And  now  I  know  how  it  happened.  It  was  Joe." 

"The  principal  thing  is,  not  how  it  happened, 
but  that  he  is  going  to  get  well,  Sidney." 

She  stood  looking  down,  twisting  her  ring  around 
her  finger. 

"  Is  Joe  in  any  danger?" 

"We  are  going  to  get  him  away  to-night.  He 
wants  to  go  to  Cuba.  He'll  get  off  safely,  I  think." 

"  We  are  going  to  get  him  away!  You  are,  you 
mean.  You  shoulder  all  our  troubles,  K.,  as  if  they 
were  your  own." 

"I?"  He  was  genuinely  surprised.  "Oh,  I  see. 
You  mean  —  but  my  part  in  getting  Joe  off  is 
practically  nothing.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Schwitter 
has  put  up  the  money.  My  total  capital  in  the 
world,  after  paying  the  taxicab  to-day,  is  seven 
dollars." 

358 


"The  taxicab?" 

"By  Jove,  I  was  forgetting!  Best  news  you  ever 
heard  of!  Tillie  married  and  has  a  baby  —  all  in 
twenty-four  hours!  Boy  —  they  named  it  Le  Moyne. 
Squalled  like  a  maniac  when  the  water  went  on  its 
head.  I  —  I  took  Mrs.  McKee  out  in  a  hired  ma- 
chine. That's  what  happened  to  my  capital."  He 
grinned  sheepishly.  "She  said  she  would  have  to  go 
in  her  toque.  I  had  awful  qualms.  I  thought  it  was 
a  wrapper." 

"You,  of  course,"  she  said.  "You  find  Max  and 
save  him  —  don't  look  like  that!  You  did,  did  n't 
you?  And  you  get  Joe  away,  borrowing  money  to 
send  him.  And  as  if  that  is  n't  enough,  when  you 
ought  to  have  been  getting  some  sleep,  you  are  out 
taking  a  friend  to  Tillie,  and  being  godfather  to  the 
baby." 

He  looked  uncomfortable,  almost  guilty. 

"  I  had  a  day  off.   I—" 

"When  I  look  back  and  remember  how  all  these 
months  I've  been  talking  about  service,  and  you 
said  nothing  at  all,  and  all  the  time  you  were  living 
what  I  preached  —  I'm  so  ashamed,  K." 

He  would  not  allow  that.  It  distressed  him.  She 
saw  that,  and  tried  to  smile. 

"When  does  Joe  go?" 

"To-night.  I'm  to  take  him  across  the  country 
to  the  railroad.  I  was  wondering  — " 

"Yes?" 

"  I  'd  better  explain  first  what  happened,  and  why 
359 


it  happened.  Then  if  you  are  willing  to  send  him  a 
line,  I  think  it  would  help.  He  saw  a  girl  in  white 
in  the  car  and  followed  in  his  own  machine.  He 
thought  it  was  you,  of  course.  He  did  n't  like  the 
idea  of  your  going  to  Schwritter's.  Carlotta  was 
taken  ill.  And  Schwitter  and  —  and  Wilson  took 
her  upstairs  to  a  room." 

"Do  you  believe  that,  K.?" 

"I  do.  He  saw  Max  coming  out  and  misunder- 
stood. He  fired  at  him  then." 

"He  did  it  for  me.  I  feel  very  guilty,  K.,  as  if  it 
all  comes  back  to  me.  I  '11  write  to  him,  of  course. 
Poor  Joe!" 

He  watched  her  go  down  the  hall  toward  the 
night  nurse's  desk.  He  would  have  given  every- 
thing just  then  for  the  right  to  call  her  back,  to  take 
her  in  his  arms  and  comfort  her.  She  seemed  so 
alone.  He  himself  had  gone  through  loneliness  and 
heartache,  and  the  shadow  was  still  on  him.  He 
waited  until  he  saw  her  sit  down  at  the  desk  and 
take  up  a  pen.  Then  he  went  back  into  the  quiet 
room. 

He  stood  by  the  bedside,  looking  down.  Wilson 
was  breathing  quietly:  his  color  was  coming  up,  as 
he  rallied  from  the  shock.  In  K.'s  mind  now  was 
just  one  thought  —  to  bring  him  through  for  Sid- 
ney, and  then  to  go  away.  He  might  follow  Joe  to 
Cuba.  There  were  chances  there.  He  could  do  sani- 
tation work,  or  he  might  try  the  Canal. 

The  Street  would  go  on  working  out  its  own  sal- 

360 


vation.  He  would  have  to  think  of  something  for 
the  Rosenfelds.  And  he  was  worried  about  Chris- 
tine. But  there  again,  perhaps  it  would  be  better 
if  he  went  away.  Christine's  story  would  have  to 
work  itself  out.  His  hands  were  tied. 

He  was  glad  in  a  way  that  Sidney  had  asked  no 
questions  about  him,  had  accepted  his  new  identity 
so  calmly.  It  had  been  overshadowed  by  the  night 
tragedy.  It  would  have  pleased  him  if  she  had 
shown  more  interest,  of  course.  But  he  understood. 
It  was  enough,  he  told  himself,  that  he  had  helped 
her,  that  she  counted  on  him.  But  more  and  more  he 
knew  in  his  heart  that  it  was  not  enough.  "  I  'd  better 
get  away  from  here,"  he  told  himself  savagely. 

And  having  taken  the  first  step  toward  flight,  as 
happens  in  such  cases,  he  was  suddenly  panicky 
with  fear,  fear  that  he  would  get  out  of  hand,  and 
take  her  in  his  arms,  whether  or  no ;  a  temptation  to 
run  from  temptation,  to  cut  everything  and  go  with 
Joe  that  night.  But  there  his  sense  of  humor  saved 
him.  That  would  be  a  sight  for  the  gods,  two  de- 
feated lovers  flying  together  under  the  soft  Septem- 
ber moon. 

Some  one  entered  the  room.  He  thought  it  was 
Sidney  and  turned  with  the  light  in  his  eyes  that 
was  only  for  her.  It  was  Carlotta. 

She  was  not  in  uniform.  She  wore  a  dark  skirt 
and  white  waist  and  her  high  heels  tapped  as  she 
crossed  the  room.  She  came  directly  to  him. 

"He  is  better,  is  n't  he?" 
361 


"He  is  rallying.  Of  course  it  will  be  a  day  or  two 
bofore  we  are  quite  sure." 

She  stood  looking  down  at  Wilson's  quiet  figure. 

"I  guess  you  know  I've  been  crazy  about  him," 
she  said  quietly.  "Well,  that's  all  over.  He  never 
really  cared  for  me.  I  played  his  game  and  I  —  lost. 
I've  been  expelled  from  the  school." 

Quite  suddenly  she  dropped  on  her  knees  beside 
die  bed,  and  put  her  cheek  close  to  the  sleeping 
man's  hand.  When  after  a  moment  she  rose,  she 
was  controlled  again,  calm,  very  white. 

"Will  you  tell  him,  Dr.  Edwardes,  when  he  is 
conscious,  that  I  came  in  and  said  good-bye?" 

"I  will,  of  course.  Do  you  want  to  leave  any 
other  message?" 

She  hesitated,  as  if  the  thought  tempted  her. 
Then  she  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

''What  would  be  the  use?  He  does  n't  want  any 
message  from  me." 

She  turned  toward  the  door.  But  K.  could  not 
let  her  go  like  that.  Her  face  frightened  him.  It  was 
too  calm,  too  controlled.  He  followed  her  across 
the  room. 

"What  are  your  plans?" 

"I  haven't  any.  I'm  about  through  with  my 
training,  but  I've  lost  my  diploma." 

"  I  don't  like  to  see  }^ou  going  away  like  this." 

She  avoided  his  eyes,  but  his  kindly  tone  did  what 
neither  the  Head  nor  the  Executive  Committee  had 
done  that  day.  It  shook  her  control. 

362 


"What  does  it  matter  to  you?  You  don't  owe  me 
anything." 

"  Perhaps  not.  One  way  and  another  I  Ve  known 
you  a  long  time." 

"You  never  knew  anything  very  good." 

"I'll  tell  you  where  I  live,  and  — " 

"I  know  where  you  live." 

"Will  you  come  to  see  me  there?  We  may  be 
able  to  think  of  something." 

liVJhat  is  there  to  think  of?  This  story  will  follow 
me  wherever  I  go!  I've  tried  twice  for  a  diploma 
and  failed.  What's  the  use?" 

But  in  the  end  he  prevailed  on  her  to  promise  not 
to  leave  the  city  until  she  had  seen  him  again.  It 
was  not  until  she  had  gone,  a  straight  figure  with 
haunted  eyes,  that  he  reflected  whimsically  that 
once  again  he  had  defeated  his  own  plans  for  flight. 

In  the  corridor  outside  the  door  Carlotta  hesi- 
tated. Why  not  go  back?  Why  not  tell  him?  He 
was  kind;  he  was  going  to  do  something  for  her. 
But  the  old  instinct  of  self-preservation  prevailed. 
She  went  on  to  her  room. 

Sidney  brought  her  letter  to  Joe  back  to  K.  She 
was  flushed  with  the  effort  and  with  a  new  excite- 
ment. 

"This  is  the  letter,  K.,  and  —  I  have  n't  been 
able  to  say  what  I  wanted,  exactly.  You'll  let  him 
know,  won 't  you,  how  I  feel,  and  how  I  blame  my- 
self?" 

K.  promised  gravely. 

363 


"And  the  most  remarkable  thing  has  happened. 
What  a  day  this  has  been!  Somebody  has  sent 
Johnny  Rosenfeld  a  lot  of  money.  The  ward  nurse 
wants  you  to  come  back." 

The  ward  had  settled  for  the  night.  The  well- 
ordered  beds  of  the  daytime  were  chaotic  now,  torn 
apart  by  tossing  figures.  The  night  was  hot  and 
an  electric  fan  hummed  in  a  far  corner.  Under  its 
sporadic  breezes,  as  it  turned,  the  ward  was  trying 
to  sleep. 

Johnny  Rosenfeld  was  not  asleep.  An  incredible 
thing  had  happened  to  him.  A  fortune  lay  under 
his  pillow.  He  was  sure  it  was  there,  for  ever  since  it 
came  his  hot  hand  had  clutched  it. 

He  was  quite  sure  that  somehow  or  other  K.  had 
had  a  hand  in  it.  When  he  disclaimed  it,  the  boy 
was  bewildered. 

"It'll  buy  the  old  lady  what  she  wants  for  the 
house,  anyhow,"  he  said.  "But  I  hope  nobody's 
took  up  a  collection  for  me.  I  don't  want  no  char- 
ity." 

"Maybe  Mr.  Howe  sent  it." 

"You  can  bet  your  last  match  he  did  n't." 

In  some  unknown  way  the  news  had  reached  the 
ward  that  Johnny's  friend,  Mr.  Le  Moyne,  was  a 
great  surgeon.  Johnny  had  rejected  it  scornfully. 

"He  works  in  the  gas  office,"  he  said.  "  I  've  seen 
him  there.  If  he's  a  surgeon,  what's  he  doing  in  the 
gas  office.  If  he's  a  surgeon,  what's  he  doing  teach- 
ing me  raffia-work?  Why  is  n't  he  on  his  job?" 

364 


But  the  story  had  seized  on  his  imagination. 

"Say,  Mr.  Le  Moyne." 

"Yes,  Jack." 

He  called  him  "Jack."  The  boy  liked  it.  It  sa- 
vored of  man  to  man.  After  all,  he  was  a  man,  or 
almost.  Had  n't  he  driven  a  car?  Did  n't  he  have 
a  state  license? 

"They've  got  a  queer  story  about  you  here  in  the 
ward." 

"Not  scandal,  I  trust,  Jack!" 

"They  say  that  you're  a  surgeon;  that  you  oper- 
ated on  Dr.  Wilson  and  saved  his  life.  They  say 
that  you  Ye  the  king  pin  where  you  came  from."  He 
eyed  K.  wistfully.  "I  know  it's  a  damn  lie,  but  if 
it's  true—" 

"  I  used  to  be  a  surgeon.  As  a  matter  of  fact  I 
operated  on  Dr.  Wilson  to-day.  I  —  I  am  rather 
apologetic,  Jack,  because  I  did  n't  explain  to  you 
sooner.  For  —  various  reasons  —  I  gave  up  that  — 
that  line  of  business.  To-day  they  rather  forced  my 
hand." 

"  Don't  you  think  you  could  do  something  for  me, 
sir?" 

When  K.  did  not  reply  at  once,  he  launched  into 
an  explanation. 

" I've  been  lying  here  a  good  while.  I  did  n't  say 
much  because  I  knew  I  'd  have  to  take  a  chance. 
Either  I  'd  pull  through  or  I  would  n't,  and  the  odds 
were  —  well,  I  didn't  say  much.  The  old  lady's 
had  a  lot  of  trouble.  But  now,  with  this  under  my 

365 


pillow  for  her,  I  Ve  got  a  right  to  ask.   I  '11  take  a 
chance,  if  you  will." 

"It's  only  a  chance,  Jack." 

"  I  know  that.  But  lie  here  and  watch  these  soaks 
off  the  street.  Old,  a  lot  of  them,  and  gettin'  well 
to  go  out  and  starve,  and — •  My  God!  Mr.  Le 
Moyne,  they  can  walk,  and  I  can't." 

K.  drew  a  long  breath.  He  had  started,  and  now 
he  must  go  on.  Faith  in  himself  or  no  faith,  he  must 
go  on.  Life,  that  had  loosed  its  hold  on  him  for  a 
time,  had  found  him  again. 

" I'll  go  over  you  carefully  to-morrow,  Jack.  I '11 
tell  you  your  chances  honestly." 

"I  have  a  thousand  dollars.  Whatever  you 
charge — " 

"  I'll  take  it  out  of  my  board  bill  in  the  new  house ! " 

At  four  o'clock  that  morning  K.  got  back  from 
seeing  Joe  off.  The  trip  had  been  without  accident. 

Over  Sidney's  letter  Joe  had  shed  a  shamefaced 
tear  or  two.  And  during  the  night  ride,  with  K. 
pushing  the  car  to  the  utmost,  he  had  felt  that  the 
boy,  in  keeping  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  had  kept  it 
on  the  letter.  When  the  road  was  smooth  and 
stretched  ahead,  a  gray- white  line  into  the  night, 
he  tried  to  talk  a  little  courage  into  the  boy's  sick 
heart. 

"You'll  see  new  people,  new  life,"  he  said.  "In 
a  month  from  now  you'll  wonder  why  you  ever 
hung  around  the  Street.  I  have  a  feeling  that  you  're 
going  to  make  good  down  there." 

366 


And  once,  when  the  time  for  parting  was  very 
near,  — 

"No  matter  what  happens,  keep  on  believing  in 
yourself.  I  lost  my  faith  in  myself  once.  It  was 
pretty  close  to  hell. 

Joe's  response  showed  his  entire  self-engrossment. 

" If  he  dies,  I'm  a  murderer." 

"He's  not  going  to  die,"  said  K.  stoutly. 

At  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  he  left  the  car  at 
the  garage  and  walked  around  to  the  little  house. 
He  had  had  no  sleep  for  forty-five  hours;  his  eyes 
were  sunken  in  his  head;  the  skin  over  his  temples 
looked  drawn  and  white.  His  clothes  were  wrinkled ; 
the  soft  hat  he  habitually  wore  was  white  with  the 
dust  of  the  road. 

As  he  opened  the  hall  door,  Christine  stirred  in 
the  room  beyond.  She  came  out  fully  dressed. 

"K.,  are  you  sick?" 

"Rather  tired.  Why  in  the  world  are  n't  you  in 
bed?" 

"Palmer  has  just  come  home  in  a  terrible  raga 
He  says  he's  been  robbed  of  a  thousand  dollars." 

"Where?" 

Christine  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"He  does  n't  know,  or  says  he  does  n't.  I  'm  glad 
of  it.  He  seems  thoroughly  frightened.  It  may  be  a 
lesson." 

In  the  dim  hall  light  he  realized  that  her  face  was 
strained  and  set.  She  looked  on  the  verge  of  hys- 
teria. 

367 


" Poor  little  woman,"  he  said.  " I'm  sorry,  Chris- 
tine." 

The  tender  words  broke  down  the  last  barrier  of 
her  self-control. 

"Oh,  K.!  Take  me  away.  Take  me  away!  I 
can't  stand  it  any  longer." 

She  held  her  arms  out  to  him,  and  because  he  was 
very  tired  and  lonely,  and  because  more  than  any- 
thing else  in  the  world  just  then  he  needed  a  wom- 
an's arms,  he  drew  her  to  him  and  held  her  close, 
his  cheek  to  her  hair. 

"Poor  girl!"  he  said.  "Poor  Christine!  Surely 
there  must  be  some  happiness  for  us  somewhere." 

But  the  next  moment  he  let  her  go  and  stepped 
back. 

"I'm  sorry."  Characteristically  he  took  the 
blame.  "  I  should  n't  have  done  that  —  You  know 
how  it  is  with  me." 

"Will  it  always  be  Sidney?" 

"I'm  afraid  it  will  always  be  Sidney." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

JOHNNY  ROSENFELD  was  dead.  All  of  K.'s  skill  had 
not  sufficed  to  save  him.  The  operation  had  been  a 
marvel,  but  the  boy's  long-sapped  strength  failed  at 
the  last. 

K.,  set  of  face,  stayed  with  him  to  the  end.  The 
boy  did  not  know  he  was  going.  He  roused  from  the 
coma  and  smiled  up  at  Le  Moyne. 

"  I've  got  a  hunch  that  I  can  move  my  right  foot," 
he  said.  "  Look  and  see." 

K.  lifted  the  light  covering. 

"You're  right,  old  man.    It's  moving." 

"Brake  foot,  clutch  foot,"  said  Johnny,  and 
closed  his  eyes  again. 

K.  had  forbidden  the  white  screens,  that  outward 
symbol  of  death.  Time  enough  for  them  later.  So 
the  ward  had  no  suspicion,  nor  had  the  boy. 

The  ward  passed  in  review.  It  was  Sunday,  and 
from  the  chapel  far  below  came  the  faint  singing  of 
a  hymn.  When  Johnny  spoke  again  he  did  not  open 
his  eyes. 

"You're  some  operator,  Mr.  Le  Moyne.  I'll  put 
in  a  word  for  you  whenever  I  get  a  chance." 

"Yes,  put  in  a  word  for  me,"  said  K.  hus- 
kily. 

He  felt  that  Johnny  would  be  a  good  mediator  — 
that  whatever  he,  K.,  had  done  of  omission  or  com- 

369 


mission,  Johnny's  voice  before  the  Tribunal  would 
count. 

The  lame  young  violin-player  came  into  the  ward. 
She  had  cherished  a  secret  and  romantic  affection 
for  Max  Wilson,  and  now  he  was  in  the  hospital 
and  ill.  So  she  wore  the  sacrificial  air  of  a  young  nun 
and  played  "The  Holy  City." 

Johnny  was  close  on  the  edge  of  his  long  sleep  by 
that  time,  and  very  comfortable. 

' l  Tell  her  nix  on  the  sob  stuff, ' '  he  complained .  ' '  Ask 
her  to  play  'I'm  twenty-one  and  she's  eighteen." 

She  was  rather  outraged,  but  on  K.'s  quick  ex- 
planation she  changed  to  the  staccato  air. 

"  Ask  her  if  she'll  come  a  little  nearer;  I  can't  hear 
her." 

So  she  moved  to  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  to  the  gay 
little  tune  Johnny  began  his  long  sleep.  But  first 
he  asked  K.  a  question:  — 

"Are  you  sure  I'm  going  to  walk,  Mr.LeMoyne?" 

"I  give  you  my  solemn  word,"  said  K.  huskily, 
"that  you  are  going  to  be  better  than  you  have  ever 
been  in  your  life." 

It  was  K.  who,  seeing  he  would  no  longer  notice, 
ordered  the  screens  to  be  set  around  the  bed,  K. 
who  drew  the  coverings  smooth  and  folded  the  boy's 
hands  over  his  breast. 

The  violin-player  stood  by  uncertainly. 

"How  very  young  he  is!  Was  it  an  accident?" 

"It  was  the  result  of  a  man's  damnable  folly," 
said  K.  grimly.  "Somebody  always  pays." 

370 


And  so  Johnny  Rosenfeld  paid. 

The  immediate  result  of  his  death  was  that  K., 
who  had  gained  some  of  his  faith  in  himself  on  seeing 
Wilson  on  the  way  to  recovery,  was  beset  by  his  old 
doubts.  What  right  had  he  to  arrogate  to  himself 
again  powers  of  life  and  death?  Over  and  over  he 
told  himself  that  there  had  been  no  carelessness  here, 
that  the  boy  would  have  died  ultimately,  that  he 
had  taken  the  only  chance,  that  the  boy  himself  had 
known  the  risk  and  begged  for  it. 

The  old  doubts  came  back. 

And  now  came  a  question  that  demanded  imme- 
diate answer.  Wilson  would  be  out  of  commission 
for  several  months,  probably.  He  was  gaining,  but 
slowly.  And  he  wanted  K.  to  take  over  his  work. 

"Why  not?"  he  demanded,  half  irritably.  "The 
secret  is  out.  Everybody  knows  who  you  are.  You  're 
not  thinking  about  going  back  to  that  ridiculous 
gas  office,  are  you?" 

"I  had  some  thought  of  going  to  Cuba." 

"I'm  damned  if  I  understand  you.  You've  done 
a  marvelous  thing;  I  lie  here  and  listen  to  the  staff 
singing  your  praises  until  I'm  sick  of  your  name! 
And  now,  because  a  boy  who  would  n't  have  lived 
anyhow  — " 

"That's  not  it,"  K.  put  in  hastily.  "I  know  all 
that.  I  guess  I  could  do  it  and  get  away  with  it  as 
well  as  the  average.  All  that  deters  me  -r-  I've  never 
told  you,  have  I,  why  I  gave  up  before?" 

Wilson  was  propped  up  in  his  bed.  K.  was  walk- 
371 


ing  restlessly  about  the  room,  as  was  his  habit 
when  troubled. 

"I've  heard  the  gossip;  that's  all." 

"When  you  recognized  me  that  night  on  the  bal- 
cony, I  told  you  I'd  lost  my  faith  in  myself,  and 
you  slid  the  whole  affair  had  been  gone  over  at  the 
State  Society.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  Society  knew 
of  only  two  cases.  There  had  been  three." 

"Even  at  that—  " 

"You  know  what  I  always  felt  about  the  profes- 
sion, Max.  We  went  into  that  more  than  once  in 
Berlin.  Either  one's  best  or  nothing.  I  had  done 
pretty  well.  When  I  left  Lorch  and  built  my  own 
hospital,  I  had  n't  a  doubt  of  myself.  And  because 
I  was  getting  results  I  got  a  lot  of  advertising.  Men 
began  coming  to  the  clinics.  I  found  I  was  making 
enough  out  of  the  patients  who  could  pay  to  add  a 
few  free  wards.  I  want  to  tell  you  now,  Wilson,  that 
the  opening  of  those  free  wards  was  the  greatest 
self-indulgence  I  ever  permitted  myself.  I  'd  seen  so 
much  careless  attention  given  the  poor  —  well,  never 
mind  that.  It  was  almost  three  years  ago  that  things 
began  to  go  wrong.  I  lost  a  big  case." 

"I  know.  All  this  does  n't  influence  me,  Ed- 
wardes." 

"Wait  a  moment.  We  had  a  system  in  the  oper- 
ating-room as  perfect  as  I  could  devise  it.  I  never 
finished  an  operation  without  having  my  first  as- 
sistant verify  the  clip  and  sponge  coiftnt.  But  that 
first  case  died  because  a  sponge  had  been  left  in  the 

372 


operating  field.  You  know  how  those  things  go;  you 
can't  always  see  them,  and  one  goes  by  the  count, 
after  reasonable  caution.  Then  I  almost  lost  an- 
other case  in  the  same  way  —  a  free  case. 

"As  well  as  I  could  tell,  the  precautions  had  not 
been  relaxed.  I  was  doing  from  four  to  six  cases  a 
day.  After  the  second  one  I  almost  went  crazy.  I 
made  up  my  mind,  if  there  was  ever  another,  I'd 
give  up  and  go  away." 

"There  was  another?" 

"Not  for  several  months.  When  the  last  case 
died,  a  free  case  again,  I  performed  my  own  autopsy. 
I  allowed  only  my  first  assistant  in  the  room.  He. 
was  almost  as  frenzied  as  I  was.  It  was  the  same 
thing  again.  When  I  told  him  I  was  going  away,  he 
offered  to  take  the  blame  himself,  to  say  he  had 
closed  the  incision.  He  tried  to  make  me  think  he 
was  responsible.  I  knew  —  better." 

"It's  incredible." 

"Exactly;  but  it's  true.  The  last  patient  was  a 
laborer.  He  left  a  family.  I've  sent  them  money 
from  time  to  time.  I  used  to  sit  and  think  about 
the  children  he  left,  and  what  would  become  of  them. 
The  ironic  part  of  it  was  that,  for  all  that  had  hap- 
pened, I  was  busier  all  the  time.  Men  were  sending 
me  cases  from  all  over  the  country.  It  was  either 
stay  and  keep  on  working,  with  that  chance,  or  — 
quit.  I  quit." 

"But  if  you  had  stayed,  and  taken  extra  pre- 
cautions —  " 

373 


"We'd  taken  every  precaution  we  knew." 

Neither  of  the  men  spoke  for  a  time.  K.  stood,  his 
tall  figure  outlined  against  the  window.  Far  off, 
in  the  children's  ward,  children  were  laughing;  from 
near  by  a  very  young  baby  wailed  a  thin  cry  of  pro- 
test against  life;  a  bell  rang  constantly.  K.'s  mind 
was  busy  with  the  past  —  with  the  day  he  decided 
to  give  up  and  go  away,  with  the  months  of  wander- 
ing and  homelessness,  with  the  night  he  had  come 
up  the  Street  and  had  seen  Sidney  on  the  doorstep 
of  the  little  house. 

"That's  the  worst,  is  it?"  Max  Wilson  demanded 
at  last. 

"That's  enough." 

"It's  extremely  significant.  You  had  an  enemy 
somewhere  —  on  your  staff,  probably.  This  profes- 
sion of  ours  is  a  big  one,  but  you  know  its  jealousies. 
Let  a  man  get  his  shoulders  above  the  crowd,  and 
the  pack  is  after  him."  He  laughed  a  little.  "Mixed 
figure,  but  you  know  what  I  mean." 

K.  shook  his  head.  He  had  had  that  gift  of  the 
big  man  everywhere,  in  every  profession,  of  securing 
the  loyalty  of  his  followers.  He  would  have  trusted 
every  one  of  them  with  his  life. 

"You're  going  to  do  it,  of  course." 

"Take  up  your  work?" 

"Yes." 

He  stirred  restlessly.  To  stay  on,  to  be  near  Sid- 
ney, perhaps  to  stand  by  as  Wilson's  best  man  when 
she  was  married  —  it  turned  him  cold.  But  he  did 

374 


not  give  a  decided  negative.  The  sick  man  was  flushed 
and  growing  fretful;  it  would  not  do  to  irritate  him. 

"Give  me  another  day  on  it,"  he  said  at  last.  And 
so  the  matter  stood. 

Max's  injury  had  been  productive  of  good,  in  one 
way.  It  had  brought  the  two  brothers  closer  to- 
gether. In  the  mornings  Max  was  restless  until 
Dr.  Ed  arrived.  When  he  came,  he  brought  books 
in  the  shabby  bag  —  his  beloved  Burns,  although 
he  needed  no  book  for  that,  the  "  Pickwick  Papers," 
Kenan's  "Lives  of  the  Disciples."  Very  often 
Max  would  doze  off;  but  at  the  cessation  of  Dr. 
Ed's  sonorous  voice  the  sick  man  would  stir  fret- 
fully and  demand  more.  But  because  he  listened  to 
everything  without  discrimination,  the  older  man 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  the  companion- 
ship that  counted.  It  pleased  him  vastly.  It  re- 
minded him  of  Max's  boyhood,  when  he  had  read 
to  Max  at  night.  For  once  in  the  last  dozen  years, 
he  needed  him. 

"Go  on,  Ed.  What  in  blazes  makes  you  stop  every 
five  minutes?"  Max  protested,  one  day. 

Dr.  Ed,  who  had  only  stopped  to  bite  off  the  end 
of  a  stogie  to  hold  in  his  cheek,  picked  up  his  book  in 
a  hurry,  and  eyed  the  invalid  over  it. 

"Stop  bullying.  I'll  read  when  I'm  ready.  Have 
you  any  idea  what  I'm  reading?" 

"Of  course." 

"Well,  I  haven't.  For  ten  minutes  I've  been 
reading  across  both  pages!" 

375 


Max  laughed,  and  suddenly  put  out  his  hand.  De- 
monstrations of  affection  were  so  rare  with  him  that 
for  a  moment  Dr.  Ed  was  puzzled.  Then,  rather 
sheepishly,  he  took  it. 

"When  I  get  out,"  Max  said,  "we'll  have  to  go 
out  to  the  White  Springs  again  and  have  supper." 

That  was  all ;  but  Ed  understood. 

Morning  and  evening,  Sidney  went  to  Max's 
room.  In  the  morning  she  only  smiled  at  him  from 
the  doorway.  In  the  evening  she  went  to  him  after 
prayers.  She  was  allowed  an  hour  with  him  then. 

The  shooting  had  been  a  closed  book  between 
them.  At  first,  when  he  began  to  recover,  he  tried 
to  talk  to  her  about  it.  But  she  refused  to  listen. 
She  was  very  gentle  with  him,  but  very  firm. 

"I  know  how  it  happened,  Max,"  she  said  — 
"about  Joe's  mistake  and  all  that.  The  rest  can 
wait  until  you  are  much  better." 

If  there  had  been  any  change  in  her  manner  to  him, 
he  would  not  have  submitted  so  easily,  probably. 
But  she  was  as  tender  as  ever,  unfailingly  patient, 
prompt  to  come  to  him  and  slow  to  leave.  After  a 
time  he  began  to  dread  reopening  the  subject.  She 
seemed  so  effectually  to  have  closed  it.  Carlotta 
was  gone.  And,  after  all,  what  good  could  he  do  his 
cause  by  pleading  it?  The  fact  was  there,  and  Sidney 
knew  it. 

On  the  day  when  K.  had  told  Max  his  reason  for 
giving  up  his  work,  Max  was  allowed  out  of  bed  for 
the  first  time.  It  was  a  great  day.  A  box  of  red  roses 

376 


came  that  day  from  the  girl  who  had  refused  him 
a  year  or  more  ago.  He  viewed  them  with  a  care- 
lessness that  was  half  assumed. 

The  news  had  traveled  to  the  Street  that  he  was 
to  get  up  that  day.  Early  that  morning  the  door- 
keeper had  opened  the  door  to  a  gentleman  who  did 
not  speak,  but  who  handed  in  a  bunch  of  early 
chrysanthemums  and  proceeded  to  write,  on  a  pad 
he  drew  from  his  pocket :  - 

"  From  Mrs.  McKee's  family  and  guests,  with  their 
congratulations  on  your  recovery,  and  their  hope 
that  they  will  see  you  again  soon.  If  their  ends  are 
clipped  every  day  and  they  are  placed  in  ammonia 
water,  they  will  last  indefinitely." 

Sidney  spent  her  hour  with  Max  that  evening  as 
usual.  His  big  chair  had  been  drawn  close  to  a  win- 
dow, and  she  found  him  there,  looking  out.  She 
kissed  him.  But  this  time,  instead  of  letting  her  draw 
away,  he  put  out  his  arms  and  caught  her  to  him. 

"Are  you  glad?" 

"Very  glad,  indeed,"  she  said  soberly. 

"Then  smile  at  me.  You  don't  smile  any  more. 
You  ought  to  smile;  your  mouth  — " 

"I  am  almost  always  tired;  that's  all,  Max." 

She  eyed  him  bravely. 

"Are  n't  you  going  to  let  me  make  love  to  you  at 
all?  You  get  away  beyond  my  reach." 

"  I  was  looking  for  the  paper  to  read  to  you." 

A  sudden  suspicion  flamed  in  his  eyes. 

"Sidney." 

377 


"Yes,  dear." 

"You  don't  like  me  to  touch  you  any  more.  Come 
here  where  I  can  see  you." 

The  fear  of  agitating  him  brought  her  quickly. 
For  a  moment  he  was  appeased. 

' '  That 's  more  like  it.  How  lovely  you  are,  Sidney ! ' ' 
He  lifted  first  one  hand  and  then  the  other  to  his 
lips.  "Are  you  ever  going  to  forgive  me?" 

11  If  you  mean  about  Carlotta,  I  forgave  that  long 
ago." 

He  was  almost  boyishly  relieved.  What  a  wonder 
she  was!  So  lovely,  and  so  sane.  Many  a  woman 
would  have  held  that  over  him  for  years  —  not  that 
he  had  done  anything  really  wrong  on  that  night- 
mare excursion.  But  so  many  women  are  exigent 
about  promises. 

"When  are  you  going  to  marry  me?" 

"We  need  n't  discuss  that  to-night,  Max." 

"  I  want  you  so  very  much.  I  don't  want  to  wait, 
dear.  Let  me  tell  Ed  that  you  will  marry  me  soon. 
Then,  when  I  go  away,  I'll  take  you  with  me." 

"Can't  we  talk  things  over  when  you  are 
stronger?" 

Her  tone  caught  his  attention,  and  turned  him  a 
little  white.  He  faced  her  to  the  window,  so  that  the 
light  fell  full  on  her. 

"What  things?  What  do  you  mean?" 

He  had  forced  her  hand.  She  had  meant  to  wait; 
but,  with  his  keen  eyes  on  her,  she  could  not  dis- 
semble. 

378 


"  I  am  going  to  make  you  very  unhappy  for  a  little 
while." 

"Well?" 

"I've  had  a  lot  of  time  to  think.  If  you  had 
really  wanted  me,  Max — " 

"My  God,  of  course  I  want  you ! " 

"  It  is  n't  that  I  am  angry.  I  am  not  even  jealous. 
I  was  at  first.  It  is  n't  that.  It's  hard  to  make  you 
understand.  I  think  you  care  for  me  - 

"I  love  you!  I  swear  I  never  loved  any  other 
woman  as  I  love  you." 

Suddenly  he  remembered  that  he  had  also  sworn  to 
put  Carlotta  out  of  his  life.  He  knew  that  Sidney 
remembered,  too;  but  she  gave  no  sign. 

"Perhaps  that's  true.  You  might  go  on  caring 
for  me.  Sometimes  I  think  you  would.  But  there 
would  always  be  other  women,  Max.  You're  like 
that.  Perhaps  you  can't  help  it." 

"If  you  loved  me  you  could  do  anything  with 
me."  He  was  half  sullen. 

By  the  way  her  color  leaped,  he  knew  he  had 
struck  fire.  All  his  conjectures  as  to  how  Sidney  would 
take  the  knowledge  of  his  entanglement  with  Car- 
lotta had  been  founded  on  one  major  premise  —  that 
she  loved  him.  The  mere  suspicion  made  him  gasp. 

"  But,  good  Heavens,  Sidney,  you  do  care  for  me, 
don't  you?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't,  Max;  not  enough." 

She  tried  to  explain,  rather  pitifully.  After  one 
look  at  his  face,  she  spoke  to  the  window. 

379 


"I'm  so  wretched  about  it.  I  thought  I  cared. 
To  me  you  were  the  best  and  greatest  man  that  ever 
lived.  I  —  when  I  said  my  prayers,  I  —  But  that 
does  n't  matter.  You  were  a  sort  of  god  to  me. 
When  the  Lamb  —  that 's  one  of  the  internes,  you 
know  —  nicknamed  you  the  'Little  Tin  God,'  I  was 
angry.  You  could  never  be  anything  little  to  me, 
or  do  anything  that  was  n't  big.  Do  you  see?" 

He  groaned  under  his  breath. 

"No  man  could  live  up  to  that,  Sidney." 

"  No.  I  see  that  now.  But  that 's  the  way  I  cared. 
Now  I  know  that  I  did  n't  care  for  you,  really,  at  all. 
I  built  up  an  idol  and  worshiped  it.  I  always  saw  you 
through  a  sort  of  haze.  You  were  operating,  with 
everybody  standing  by,  saying  how  wonderful  it  was. 
Or  you  were  coming  to  the  wards,  and  everything 
was  excitement,  getting  ready  for  you.  I  blame 
myself  terribly.  But  you  see,  don't  you?  It  is  n't 
that  I  think  you  are  wicked.  It's  just  that  I 
never  loved  the  real  you,  because  I  never  knew 
you." 

When  he  remained  silent,  she  made  an  attempt 
to  justify  herself. 

"I'd  known  very  few  men,"  she  said.  "I  came 
into  the  hospital,  and  for  a  time  life  seemed  very 
terrible.  There  were  wickednesses  I  had  never 
heard  of,  and  somebody  always  paying  for  them. 
I  was  always  asking,  Why?  Why?  Then  you  would 
come  in,  and  a  lot  of  them  you  cured  and  sent  out. 
You  gave  them  their  chance,  don't  you  see?  Until 

380 


I  knew  about  Carlotta,  you  always  meant  that  to 
me.  You  were  like  K.  —  always  helping." 

The  room  was  very  silent.  In  the  nurses'  parlor,  a 
few  feet  down  the  corridor,  the  nurses  were  at 
prayers. 

"The  Lord  is  my  shepherd;  I  shall  not  want," 
read  the  Head,  her  voice  calm  with  the  quiet  of  twi- 
light and  the  end  of  the  day. 

"He  maketh  me  to  lie  down  in  green  pastures:  he 
leadeth  me  beside  the  still  waters." 

The  nurses  read  the  response  a  little  slowly,  as 
if  they,  too,  were  weary:  — 

"Yea,  though  I  walk  through  the  valley  of  the 
shadow  of  death  — " 

The  man  in  the  chair  stirred.  He  had  come 
through  the  valley  of  the  shadow,  and  for  what? 
He  was  very  bitter.  He  said  to  himself  savagely  that 
they  would  better  have  let  him  die. 

"You  say  you  never  loved  me  because  you  never 
knew  me.  I  'm  not  a  rotter,  Sidney.  Is  n't  it  possible 
that  the  man  you  cared  about,  who  —  who  did  his 
best  by  people  and  all  that  —  is  the  real  me?" 

She  gazed  at  him  thoughtfully.  He  missed  some- 
thing out  of  her  eyes,  the  sort  of  luminous,  wistful 
look  with  which  she  had  been  wont  to  survey  his 
greatness.  Measured  by  this  new  glance,  so  clear, 
so  appraising,  he  shrank  back  into  his  chair. 

"The  man  who  did  his  best  is  quite  real.  You 
have  always  done  your  best  in  your  work;  you  al- 
ways will.  But  the  other  is  a  part  of  you  too, 


Max.     Even  if  I  cared,  I  would  not  dare  to  run  the 
risk." 

Under  the  window  rang  the  sharp  gong  of  a  city 
patrol- wagon.  It  rumbled  through  the  gates  back 
to  the  courtyard,  where  its  continued  clamor  sum- 
moned white-coated  orderlies. 

An  operating-room  case,  probably.  Sidney,  chin 
lifted,  listened  carefully.  If  it  was  a  case  for  her, 
the  elevator  would  go  up  to  the  operating-room. 
With  a  renewed  sense  of  loss,  Max  saw  that  already 
she  had  put  him  out  of  her  mind.  The  call  to  service 
was  to  her  a  call  to  battle.  Her  sensitive  nostrils 
quivered ;  her  young  figure  stood  erect,  alert. 

"It  has  gone  up!" 

She  took  a  step  toward  the  door,  hesitated,  came 
back,  and  put  a  light  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

" I'm  sorry,  dear  Max." 

She  had  kissed  him  lightly  on  the  cheek  before 
he  knew  what  she  intended  to  do.  So  passionless 
was  the  little  caress  that,  perhaps  more  than  any- 
thing else,  it  typified  the  change  in  their  relation. 

When  the  door  closed  behind  her,  he  saw  that  she 
had  left  her  ring  on  the  arm  of  his  chair.  He  picked  it 
up.  It  was  still  warm  from  her  finger.  He  held  it  to 
his  lips  with  a  quick  gesture.  In  all  his  successful 
young  life  he  had  never  before  felt  the  bitterness  of 
failure.  The  very  warmth  of  the  little  ring  hurt. 

Why  had  n't  they  let  him  die?  He  did  n't  want  to 
live  —  he  would  n't  live.  Nobody  cared  for  him! 
He  would  — 

382 


His  eyes,  lifted  from  the  ring,  fell  on  the  red  glow 
of  the  roses  that  had  come  that  morning.  Even  in 
the  half  light,  they  glowed  with  fiery  color. 

The  ring  was  in  his  right  hand.  With  the  left  he 
settled  his  collar  and  soft  silk  tie. 

K.  saw  Carlotta  that  evening  for  the  last  time. 
Katie  brought  word  to  him,  where  he  was  helping 
Harriet  close  her  trunk,  —  she  was  on  her  way  to 
Europe  for  the  fall  styles,  —  that  he  was  wanted 
in  the  lower  hall. 

"A  lady!"  she  said,  closing  the  door  behind  her 
by  way  of  caution.  "And  a  good  thing  for  her  she 's 
not  from  the  alley.  The  way  those  people  beg  off 
you  is  a  sin  and  a  shame,  and  it 's  not  at  home  you  're 
going  to  be  to  them  from  now  on." 

So  K.  had  put  on  his  coat  and,  without  so  much  as 
a  glance  hi  Harriet's  mirror,  had  gone  down  the 
stairs.  Carlotta  was  in  the  lower  hall.  She  stood 
under  the  chandelier,  and  he  saw  at  once  the  rav- 
ages that  trouble  had  made  in  her.  She  was  a  dead 
white,  and  she  looked  ten  years  older  than  her 
age. 

"I  came,  you  see,  Dr.  Edwardes." 

Now  and  then,  when  some  one  came  to  him  for 
help,  which  was  generally  money,  he  used  Christine's 
parlor,  if  she  happened  to  be  out.  So  now,  finding  the 
door  ajar,  and  the  room  dark,  he  went  in  and  turned 
on  the  light. 

"Come  in  here;  we  can  talk  better." 
383 


She  did  not  sit  down  at  first;  but,  observing  that 
her  standing  kept  him  on  his  feet,  she  sat  finally. 
Evidently  she  found  it  hard  to  speak. 

"You  were  to  come,"  K.  encouraged  her,  "to  see 
if  we  could  n't  plan  something  for  you.  Now,  I 
think  I've  got  it." 

"If  it's  another  hospital  —  and  I  don't  want  to 
stay  here,  in  the  city." 

"You  like  surgical  work,  don't  you?" 

"I  don't  care  for  anything  else." 

"Before  we  settle  this,  I'd  better  tell  you  what 
I  'm  thinking  of.  You  know,  of  course,  that  I  closed 
my  hospital.  I  —  a  series  of  things  happened,  and  I 
decided  I  was  in  the  wrong  business.  That  would  n't 
be  important,  except  for  what  it  leads  to.  They  are 
trying  to  persuade  me  to  go  back,  and  —  I  'm  trying 
to  persuade  myself  that  I'm  fit  to  go  back.  You 
see,"  —  his  tone  was  determinedly  cheerful,  —  "my 
faith  in  myself  has  been  pretty  nearly  gone.  When 
one  loses  that,  there  is  n't  much  left." 

"You  had  been  very  successful."  She  did  not 
look  up. 

"Well,  I  had  and  I  hadn't.  I'm  not  going  to 
worry  you  about  that.  My  offer  is  this:  We'll  just 
try  to  forget  about  —  about  Schwitter's  and  all  the 
rest,  and  if  I  go  back  I  '11  take  you  on  in  the  oper- 
ating-room." 

"You  sent  me  away  once!" 

"Well,  I  can  ask  you  to  come  back,  can't  I?"  He 
smiled  at  her  encouragingly. 

384 


"Are  you  sure  you  understand  about  Max  Wilson 
and  myself?" 

"I  understand." 

"Don't  you  think  you  are  taking  a  risk?" 

"Every  one  makes  mistakes  now  and  then,  and 
loving  women  have  made  mistakes  since  the  world 
began.  Most  people  live  in  glass  houses,  Miss  Harri- 
son. And  don't  make  any  mistake  about  this:  people 
can  always  come  back.  No  depth  is  too  low.  All  they 
need  is  the  will  power." 

He  smiled  down  at  her.  She  had  come  armed  with 
confession.  But  the  offer  he  made  was  too  alluring. 
It  meant  reinstatement,  another  chance,  when  she 
had  thought  everything  was  over.  After  all,  why 
should  she  damn  herself?  She  would  go  back.  She 
would  work  her  finger-ends  off  for  him.  She  would 
make  it  up  to  him  in  other  ways.  But  she  could  not 
tell  him  and  lose  everything. 

"Come,"  he  said.  "Shall  we  go  back  and  start 
over  again?" 

He  held  out  his  hand. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

LATE  September  had  come,  with  the  Street,  after 
its  summer  indolence  taking  up  the  burden  of  the 
year.  At  eight-thirty  and  at  one  the  school  bell  called 
the  children.  Little  girls  in  pig-tails,  carrying  freshly 
sharpened  pencils,  went  primly  toward  the  school, 
gathering,  comet  fashion,  a  tail  of  unwilling  brothers 
as  they  went. 

An  occasional  football  hurtled  through  the  air. 
Le  Moyne  had  promised  the  baseball  club  a  football 
outfit,  rumor  said,  but  would  not  coach  them  him- 
self this  year.  A  story  was  going  about  that  Mr.  Le 
Moyne  intended  to  go  away. 

The  Street  had  been  furiously  busy  for  a  month. 
The  cobblestones  had  gone,  and  from  curb  to  curb 
stretched  smooth  asphalt.  The  fascination  of  writ- 
ing on  it  with  chalk  still  obsessed  the  children. 
Every  few  yards  was  a  hop-scotch  diagram.  Gener- 
ally speaking,  too,  the  Street  had  put  up  new  cur- 
tains, and  even,  here  and  there,  had  added  a  coat  of 
paint. 

To  this  general  excitement  the  strange  case  of  Mr. 
Le  Moyne  had  added  its  quota.  One  day  he  was  in 
the  gas  office,  making  out  statements  that  were  ab- 
solutely ridiculous.  (What  with  no  baking  all  last 
month,  and  every  Sunday  spent  in  the  country,  no- 
body could  have  used  that  amount  of  gas.  They 

386 


could  come  and  take  their  old  meter  out !)  And  the 
next  there  was  the  news  that  Mr.  Le  Moyne  had 
been  only  taking  a  holiday  in  the  gas  office,  —  pay- 
ing off  old  scores,  the  barytone  at  Mrs.  McKee's 
hazarded !  —  and  that  he  was  really  a  very  great 
surgeon  and  had  saved  Dr.  Max  Wilson. 

The  Street,  which  was  busy  at  the  time  deciding 
whether  to  leave  the  old  sidewalks  or  to  put  down 
cement  ones,  had  one  evening  of  mad  excitement 
over  the  matter,  —  of  K.,  not  the  sidewalks,  —  and 
then  had  accepted  the  new  situation. 

But  over  the  news  of  K.'s  approaching  departure 
it  mourned.  What  was  the  matter  with  things,  any- 
how? Here  was  Christine's  marriage,  which  had 
promised  so  well,  —  awnings  and  palms  and  every- 
thing, —  turning  out  badly.  True,  Palmer  Howe 
was  doing  better,  but  he  would  break  out  again. 
And  Johnny  Rosenfeld  was  dead,  so  that  his  mother 
came  on  washing-days,  and  brought  no  cheery 
gossip,  but  bent  over  her  tubs  dry-eyed  and  silent 
—  even  the  approaching  move  to  a  larger  house 
failed  to  thrill  her.  There  was  Tillie,  too.  But  one 
did  not  speak  of  her.  She  was  married  now,  of 
course;  but  the  Street  did  not  tolerate  such  a  re- 
versal of  the  usual  processes  as  Tillie  had  in- 
dulged in.  It  censured  Mrs.  McKee  severely  for 
having  been,  so  to  speak,  an  accessory  after  the 
fact. 

The  Street  made  a  resolve  to  keep  K.,  if  possible. 
If  he  had  shown  any  "high  and  mightiness,"  as  they 

387 


called  it,  since  the  change  in  his  estate,  it  would  have 
let  him  go  without  protest.  But  when  a  man  is  the 
real  thing,  —  so  that  the  newspapers  give  a  column 
to  his  having  been  in  the  city  almost  two  years,  — 
and  still  goes  about  in  the  same  shabby  clothes,  with 
the  same  friendly  greeting  for  every  one,  it  demon- 
strates clearly,  as  the  barytone  put  it,  that  "he's  got 
no  swelled  head  on  him;  that's  sure." 

"Anybody  can  see  by  the  way  he  drives  that  ma- 
chine of  Wilson's  that  he's  been  used  to  a  car - 
likely  a  foreign  one.  All  the  swells  have  foreign  cars." 
Still  the  barytone,  who  was  almost  as  fond  of  con- 
versation as  of  what  he  termed  "vocal."  "And  an- 
other thing.  Do  you  notice  the  way  he  takes  Dr.  Ed 
around?  Has  him  at  every  consultation.  The  old 
boy's  tickled  to  death." 

A  little  later,  K.,  coming  up  the  Street  as  he  had 
that  first  day,  heard  the  barytone  singing:  — 

"  Home  is  the  hunter,  home  from  the  hill, 
And  the  sailor,  home  from  sea." 

Home !  Why,  this  was  home.  The  Street  seemed 
to  stretch  out  its  arms  to  him.  The  ailanthus  tree 
waved  in  the  sunlight  before  the  little  house.  Tree 
and  house  were  old ;  September  had  touched  them. 
Christine  sat  sewing  on  the  balcony.  A  boy  with 
a  piece  of  chalk  was  writing  something  on  the  new 
cement  under  the  tree.  He  stood  back,  head  on  one 
side,  when  he  had  finished,  and  inspected  his  work. 
K.  caught  him  up  from  behind,  and,  swinging  him 
around  — 

388 


"Hey!"  he  said  severely.  "Don't  you  know  bet- 
ter than  to  write  all  over  the  street?  What '11  I  do 
to  you?  Give  you  to  a  policeman?" 

"Aw,  lemme  down,  Mr.  K." 

"You  tell  the  boys  that  if  I  find  this  street 
scrawled  over  any  more,  the  picnic's  off." 

"Aw,  Mr.  K.!" 

"  I  mean  it.  Go  and  spend  some  of  that  chalk 
energy  of  yours  in  school." 

He  put  the  boy  down.  There  was  a  certain  tender- 
ness in  his  hands,  as  in  his  voice,  when  he  dealt  with 
children.  All  his  severity  did  not  conceal  it. 

"Get  along  with  you,  Bill.    Last  bell's  rung." 

As  the  boy  ran  off,  K.'s  eye  fell  on  what  he  had 
written  on  the  cement.  At  a  certain  part  of  his  ca- 
reer, the  child  of  such  a  neighborhood  as  the  Street 
"cancels"  names.  It  is  a  part  of  his  birthright.  He 
does  it  as  he  whittles  his  school  desk  or  tries  to  smoke 
the  long  dried  fruit  of  the  Indian  cigar  tree.  So  K. 
read  in  chalk  on  the  smooth  street:  — 

Mjtx  Wflfoyl  Marriage. 
tfdjey  Pfige  Love. 

The  childish  scrawl  stared  up  at  him  impudently, 
a  sacred  thing  profaned  by  the  day.  K.  stood  and 
looked  at  it.  The  barytone  was  still  singing;  but  now 
it  was  "I'm  twenty-one,  and  she's  eighteen."  It 
was  a  cheerful  air,  as  should  be  the  air  that  had  ac- 
companied Johnny  Rosenfeld  to  his  long  sleep.  The 
light  was  gone  from  K.'s  face  again.  After  all,  the 
Street  meant  for  him  not  so  much  home  as  it  meant 

389 


Sidney.  And  now,  before  very  long,  that  book  of  his 
life,  like  others,  would  have  to  be  closed. 

He  turned  and  went  heavily  into  the  little 
house. 

Christine  called  to  him  from  her  little  balcony:  - 

"  I  thought  I  heard  your  step  outside.  Have  you 
time  to  come  out?" 

K.  went  through  the  parlor  and  stood  in  the  long 
window.  His  steady  eyes  looked  down  at  her. 

"I  see  very  little  of  you  now,"  she  complained. 
And,  when  he  did  not  reply  immediately:  "Have 
you  made  any  definite  plans,  K.?" 

"I  shall  do  Max's  work  until  he  is  able  to  take 
hold  again.  After  that  — " 

"You  will  go  away?" 

"I  think  so.  I  am  getting  a  good  many  letters, 
one  way  and  another.  I  suppose,  now  I  'm  back  in 
harness,  I'll  stay.  My  old  place  is  closed.  I'd  go 
back  there  —  they  want  me.  But  it  seems  so  futile, 
Christine,  to  leave  as  I  did,  because  I  felt  that  I  had 
no  right  to  go  on  as  things  were;  and  now  to . crawl 
back  on  the  strength  of  having  had  my  hand  forced, 
and  to  take  up  things  again,  not  knowing  that  I  've 
a  bit  more  right  to  do  it  than  when  I  left! " 

"  I  went  to  see  Max  yesterday.  You  know  what  he 
thinks  about  all  that." 

He  took  an  uneasy  turn  up  and  down  the  bal- 
cony. 

" But  who? "  he  demanded.  "Who  would  do  such 
a  thing?  I  tell  you,  Christine,  it  isn't  possible." 

390 


She  did  not  pursue  the  subject.  Her  thoughts  had 
flown  ahead  to  the  little  house  without  K.,  to  days 
without  his  steps  on  the  stairs  or  the  heavy  creak 
of  his  big  chair  overhead  as  he  dropped  into  it. 

But  perhaps  it  would  be  better  if  he  went.  She 
had  her  own  life  to  live.  She  had  no  expectation  of 
happiness,  but,  somehow  or  other,  she  must  build 
on  the  shaky  foundation  of  her  marriage  a  house  of 
life,  with  resignation  serving  for  content,  perhaps 
with  fear  lurking  always.  That  she  knew.  But  with 
no  active  misery.  Misery  implied  affection,  and  her 
love  for  Palmer  was  quite  dead. 

"Sidney  will  be  here  this  afternoon." 

"Good."    His  tone  was  non-committal. 

"Has  it  occurred  to  you,  K.,  that  Sidney  is  not 
very  happy?" 

He  stopped  in  front  of  her. 

"She's  had  a  great  anxiety." 

"She  has  no  anxiety  now.   Max  is  doing  well." 

"Then  what  is  it?" 

"I'm  not  quite  sure,  but  I  think  I  know.  She'? 
lost  faith  in  Max,  and  she's  not  like  me.  I  —  I  knew 
about  Palmer  before  I  married  him.  I  got  a  letter. 
It's  all  rather  hideous  —  I  need  n't  go  into  it.  I  was 
afraid  to  back  out;  it  was  just  before  my  wedding. 
But  Sidney  has  more  character  than  I  have.  Max 
is  n't  what  she  thought  he  was,  and  I  doubt  whether 
she'll  marry  him." 

K.  glanced  toward  the  street  where  Sidney's  name 
and  Max's  lay  open  to  the  sun  and  to  the  smiles  of 


the  Street.    Christine  might  be  right,  but  that  did 
not  alter  things  for  him. 

Christine's  thoughts  went  back  inevitably  to 
herself;  to  Palmer,  who  was  doing  better  just  now; 
to  K.,  who  was  going  away  —  went  back  with  an 
4  ache  to  the  night  K.  had  taken  her  in  his  arms  and 
then  put  her  away.  How  wrong  things  were !  What 
a  mess  life  was ! 

"When  you  go  away,"  she  said  at  last,  "I  want 
you  to  remember  this.  I  'm  going  to  do  my  best,  K. 
You  have  taught  me  all  I  know.  All  my  life  I  '11  have 
to  overlook  things;  I  know  that.  But,  in  his  way, 
Palmer  cares  for  me.  He  will  always  come  back,  and 
perhaps  sometime  — " 

Her  voice  trailed  off.  Far  ahead  of  her  she  saw  the 
years  stretching  out,  marked,  not  by  days  and 
months,  but  by  Palmer's  wanderings  away,  his  re- 
morseful returns. 

"  Do  a  little  more  than  forgetting,"  K.  said.  "Try 
to  care  for  him,  Christine.  You  did  once.  And  that 's 
your  strongest  weapon.  It's  always  a  woman's 
strongest  weapon.  And  it  wins  in  the  end." 

"I  shall  try,  K.,"  she  answered  obediently. 

But  he  turned  away  from  the  look  in  her  eyes. 

Harriet  was  abroad.  She  had  sent  cards  from 
Paris  to  her  "trade."  It  was  an  innovation.  The 
two  or  three  people  on  the  Street  who  received  her 
engraved  announcement  that  she  was  there,  "buy- 
ing new  chic  models  for  the  autumn  and  winter  — 
afternoon  frocks,  evening  gowns,  reception  dresses, 

392 


and  wraps,  from  Poiret,  Martial  et  Armand,  and 
others,"  left  the  envelopes  casually  on  the  parlor 
table,  as  if  communications  from  Paris  were  quite 
to  be  expected. 

So  K.  lunched  alone,  and  ate  little.  After  luncheon 
he  fixed  a  broken  ironing-stand  for  Katie,  and  in 
return  she  pressed  a  pair  of  trousers  for  him.  He  had 
it  in  mind  to  ask  Sidney  to  go  out  with  him  in  Max's 
car,  and  his  most  presentable  suit  was  very  shabby. 

"I'm  thinking,"  said  Katie,  when  she  brought 
the  pressed  garments  up  over  her  arm  and  passed 
them  in  through  a  discreet  crack  in  the  door,  "that 
these  pants  will  stand  more  walking  than  sitting, 
Mr.  K.  They're  getting  mighty  thin." 

"  I  '11  take  a  duster  along  in  case  of  accident,"  he 
promised  her;  "and  to-morrow  I'll  order  a  suit, 
Katie." 

"I'll  believe  it  when  I  see  it,"  said  Katie  from 
the  stairs.  "Some  fool  of  a  woman  from  the  alley 
will  come  in  to-night  and  tell  you  she  can't  pay  her 
rent,  and  she  '11  take  your  suit  away  in  her  pocket- 
book  —  as  like  as  not  to  pay  an  installment  on  a 
piano.  There's  two  new  pianos  in  the  alley  since 
you  came  here." 

"I  promise  it,  Katie." 

"Show  it  to  me,"  said  Katie  laconically.  "And 
don't  go  to  picking  up  anything  you  drop!" 

Sidney  came  home  at  half-past  two  —  came  deli- 
cately flushed,  as  if  she  had  hurried,  and  with  a 
tremulous  smile  that  caught  Katie's  eye  at  once. 

393 


" Bless  the  child!"  she  said.  "There's  no  need  to 
ask  how  he  is  to-day.  You're  all  one  smile." 

The  smile  set  just  a  trifle. 

"Katie,  some  one  has  written  my  name  out 
on  the  street,  in  chalk.  It's  with  Dr.  Wilson's, 
and  it  looks  so  silly.  Please  go  out  and  sweep 
it  off." 

"I'm  about  crazy  with  their  old  chalk.  I'll  do 
it  after  a  while." 

"  Please  do  it  now.  I  don't  want  any  one  to  see  it. 
Is  — is  Mr.  K.  upstairs?" 

But  when  she  learned  that  K.  was  upstairs,  oddly 
enough,  she  did  not  go  up  at  once.  She  stood  in  the 
lower  hall  and  listened.  Yes,  he  was  there.  She 
could  hear  him  moving  about.  Her  lips  parted 
slightly  as  she  listened. 

Christine,  looking  in  from  her  balcony,  saw  her 
there,  and,  seeing  something  in  her  face  that  she 
had  never  suspected,  put  her  hand  to  her  throat. 

"Sidney!" 

" Oh  —  hello,  Chris." 

"Won't  you  come  and  sit  with  me?" 

"  I  have  n't  much  time  —  that  is,  I  want  to  speak 
to  K." 

"You  can  see  him  when  he  comes  down." 

Sidney  came  slowly  through  the  parlor.  It  occurred 
to  her,  all  at  once,  that  Christine  must  see  a  lot 
of  K.,  especially  now.  No  doubt  he  was  in  and 
out  of  the  house  often.  And  how  pretty  Christine 
was!  She  was  unhappy,  too.  All  that  seemed  to  be 

394 


necessary  to  win  K.'s  attention  was  to  be  unhappy 
enough.  Well,  surely,  in  that  case  — 

" How  is  Max?"  ' 

"  Still  better." 

Sidney  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  railing;  but  she 
was  careful,  Christine  saw,  to  face  the  staircase. 
There  was  silence  on  the  balcony.  Christine  sewed ; 
Sidney  sat  and  swung  her  feet  idly. 

"Dr.  Ed  says  Max  wants  you  to  give  up  your 
training  and  marry  him  now." 

"I'm  not  going  to  marry  him  at  all,  Chris." 

Upstairs,  K.'s  door  slammed.  It  was  one  of  his 
failings  that  he  always  slammed  doors.  Harriet  used 
to  be  quite  disagreeable  about  it. 

Sidney  slid  from  the  railing. 

"There  he  is  now." 

Perhaps,  in  all  her  frivolous,  selfish  life,  Christine 
had  never  had  a  bigger  moment  than  the  one  that 
followed.  She  could  have  said  nothing,  and,  in  the 
queer  way  that  life  goes,  K.  might  have  gone  away 
from  the  Street  as  empty  of  heart  as  he  had  come 
to  it. 

"Be  very  good  to  him,  Sidney,"  she  said  un- 
steadily. "He  cares  so  much." 


CHAPTER  XXX 

K.  WAS  being  very  dense.  For  so  long  had  he  con- 
sidered Sidney  as  unattainable  that  now  his  mascu- 
line mind,  a  little  weary  with  much  wretchedness, 
refused  to  move  from  its  old  attitude. 

"It  was  glamour,  that  was  all,  K.,"  said  Sidney 
bravely. 

"  But,  perhaps,"  said  K.,  "  it 's  just  because  of  that 
miserable  incident  with  Carlotta.  That  was  n't  the 
right  thing,  of  course,  but  Max  has  told  me  the 
story.  It  was  really  quite  innocent.  She  fainted  in 
the  yard,  and  — " 

Sidney  was  exasperated. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  marry  him,  K.?" 

K.  looked  straight  ahead. 

"  I  want  you  to  be  happy,  dear." 

They  were  on  the  terrace  of  the  White  Springs 
Hotel  again.  K.  had  ordered  dinner,  making  a  great 
to-do  about  getting  the  dishes  they  both  liked.  But 
now  that  it  was  there,  they  were  not  eating.  K. 
had  placed  his  chair  so  that  his  profile  was  turned 
toward  her.  He  had  worn  the  duster  religiously  until 
nightfall,  and  then  had  discarded  it.  It  hung  limp 
and  dejected  on  the  back  of  his  chair.  Past  K.'s 
profile  Sidney  could  see  the  magnolia  tree  shaped 
like  a  heart. 

396 


"It  seems  to  me,"  said  Sidney  suddenly,  "that 
you  are  kind  to  every  one  but  me,  K." 

He  fairly  stammered  his  astonishment:  — 

"Why,  what  on  earth  have  I  done?" 

"You  are  trying  to  make  me  marry  Max,  are  n't 
you?" 

She  was  very  properly  ashamed  of  that,  and,  when 
he  failed  of  reply  out  of  sheer  inability  to  think  of 
one  that  would  not  say  too  much,  she  went  hastily 
to  something  else:  — 

"It  is  hard  for  me  to  realize  that  you  —  that 
you  lived  a  life  of  your  own,  a  busy  life,  doing  useful 
things,  before  you  came  to  us.  I  wish  you  would  tell 
me  something  about  yourself.  If  we're  to  be  friends 
when  you  go  away,"  —  she  had  to  stop  there,  for 
the  lump  in  her  throat,  —  " I'll  want  to  know  how 
to  think  of  you,  —  who  your  friends  are,  —  all 
that." 

He  made  an  effort.  He  was  thinking,  of  course, 
that  he  would  be  visualizing  her,  in  the  hospital, 
in  the  little  house  on  its  side  street,  as  she  looked 
just  then,  her  eyes  like  stars,  her  lips  just  parted,  her 
hands  folded  before  her  on  the  table. 

"I  shall  be  working,"  he  said  at  last.  "So  will 
you." 

"Does  that  mean  you  won't  have  time  to  think 
of  me?" 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  stupider  than  usual  to-night. 
You  can  think  of  me  as  never  forgetting  you  or  the 
Street,  working  or  playing." 

397 


Playing!  Of  course  he  would  not  work  all  the  time. 
And  he  was  going  back  to  his  old  friends,  to  people 
who  had  always  known  him,  to  girls  — 

He  did  his  best  then.  He  told  her  of  the  old  family 
house,  built  by  one  of  his  forebears  who  had  been  a 
king's  man  until  Washington  had  put  the  case  for 
the  colonies,  and  who  had  given  himself  and  his 
oldest  son  then  to  the  cause  that  he  made  his  own. 
He  told  of  old  servants  who  had  wept  when  he  de- 
cided to  close  the  house  and  go  away.  When  she 
fell  silent,  he  thought  he  was  interesting  her.  He 
told  her  the  family  traditions  that  had  been  the 
fairy  tales  of  his  childhood.  He  described  the  library* 
the  choice  room  of  the  house,  full  of  family  paintings 
in  old  gilt  frames,  and  of  his  father's  collection  of 
books.  Because  it  was  home,  he  waxed  warm  over 
it  at  last,  although  it  had  rather  hurt  him  at  first 
to  remember.  It  brought  back  the  other  things  that 
he  wanted  to  forget. 

But  a  terrible  thing  was  happening  to  Sidney.  Side 
by  side  with  the  wonders  he  described  so  casually, 
she  was  placing  the  little  house.  What  an  exile  it 
must  have  been  for  him!  How  hopelessly  middle- 
class  they  must  have  seemed !  How  idiotic  of  her  to 
think,  for  one  moment,  that  she  could  ever  belong 
in  this  new-old  life  of  his! 

What  traditions  had  she?  None,  of  course,  save 
to  be  honest  and  good  and  to  do  her  best  for  the 
people  around  her.  Her  mother's  people,  the  Kenne- 
dys went  back  a  long  way,  but  they  had  always  been 

398 


poor.  A  library  full  of  paintings  and  books!  She 
remembered  the  lamp  with  the  blue-silk  shade,  the 
figure  of  Eve  that  used  to  stand  behind  the  minis- 
ter's portrait,  and  the  cherry  bookcase  with  the 
Encyclopaedia  in  it  and  "Beacon  Lights  of  History." 
When  K.,  trying  his  best  to  interest  her  and  to  con- 
ceal his  own  heaviness  of  spirit,  told  her  of  his  grand- 
father's old  carriage,  she  sat  back  in  the  shadow. 

"Fearful  old  thing,"  said  K.,  —  "regular  cabrio- 
let. I  can  remember  yet  the  family  rows  over  it. 
But  the  old  gentleman  liked  it  —  used  to  have  it 
repainted  every  year.  Strangers  in  the  city  used  to 
turn  around  and  stare  at  it  —  thought  it  was  ad- 
vertising something!" 

"When  I  was  a  child,"  said  Sidney  quietly,  "and 
a  carriage  drove  up  and  stopped  on  the  Street,  I 
always  knew  some  one  had  died!" 

There  was  a  strained  note  in  her  voice.  K.,  whose 
ear  was  attuned  to  every  note  in  her  voice,  looked 
at  her  quickly. 

"My  great-grandfather,"  said  Sidney  in  the  same 
tone,  "sold  chickens  at  market.  He  didn't  do  it 
himself;  but  the  fact's  there,  is  n't  it?" 

K.  was  puzzled. 

"What  about  it?  "he  said. 

But  Sidney's  agile  mind  had  already  traveled  on. 
This  K.  she  had  never  known,  who  had  lived  in  a 
wonderful  house,  and  all  the  rest  of  it  —  he  must 
have  known  numbers  of  lovely  women,  his  own  sort 
of  women,  who  had  traveled  and  knew  all  kinds  of 

399 


things:  girls  like  the  daughters  of  the  Executive 
Committee,  who  came  in  from  their  country  places 
in  summer  with  great  armfuls  of  flowers,  and  hur- 
ried off,  after  consulting  their  jeweled  watches,  to 
luncheon  or  tea  or  tennis. 

"Go  on,"  said  Sidney  dully.  "Tell  me  about  the 
women  you  have  known,  your  friends,  the  ones  you 
liked  and  the  ones  who  liked  you." 

K.  was  rather  apologetic. 

"I've  always  been  so  busy,"  he  confessed.  "I 
know  a  lot,  but  I  don't  think  they  would  interest 
you.  They  don't  do  anything,  you  know  —  they 
travel  around  and  have  a  good  time.  They  're  rather 
nice  to  look  at,  some  of  them.  But  when  you've 
said  that  you've  said  it  all." 

Nice  to  look  at!  Of  course  they  would  be,  with 
nothing  else  to  think  of  in  all  the  world  but  of  how 
they  looked. 

Suddenly  Sidney  felt  very  tired.  She  wanted  to 
go  back  to  the  hospital,  and  turn  the  key  in  the 
door  of  her  little  room,  and  lie  with  her  face  down 
on  the  bed. 

"Would  you  mind  very  much  if  I  asked  you  to 
take  me  back?" 

He  did  mind.  He  had  a  depressed  feeling  that  the 
evening  had  failed.  And  his  depression  grew  as  he 
brought  the  car  around.  He  understood,  he  thought. 
She  was  grieving  about  Max.  After  all,  a  girl  could  n't 
care  as  she  had  for  a  year  and  a  half,  and  then  give  a 
man  up  because  of  another  woman,  without  a  wrench. 

400 


"  Do  you  really  want  to  go  home,  Sidney,  or  were 
you  tired  of  sitting  there?  In  that  case,  we  could 
drive  around  for  an  hour  or  two.  I'll  not  talk  if 
you'd  like  to  be  quiet." 

Being  with  K.  had  become  an  agony,  now  that 
she  realized  how  wrong  Christine  had  been,  and  that 
their  worlds,  hers  and  K.'s,  had  only  touched  for  a 
time.  Soon  they  would  be  separated  by  as  wide  a 
gulf  as  that  which  lay  between  the  cherry  bookcase 
—  for  instance,  —  and  a  book-lined  library  hung 
with  family  portraits.  But  she  was  not  disposed  to 
skimp  as  to  agony.  She  would  go  through  with  it, 
every  word  a  stab,  if  only  she  might  sit  beside  K. 
a  little  longer,  might  feel  the  touch  of  his  old  gray 
coat  against  her  arm. 

"  I  'd  like  to  ride,  if  you  don't  mind." 

K.  turned  the  automobile  toward  the  country 
roads.  He  was  remembering  acutely  that  other 
ride  after  Joe  in  his  small  car,  the  trouble  he  had  had 
to  get  a  machine,  the  fear  of  he  knew  not  what 
ahead,  and  his  arrival  at  last  at  the  road-house,  to 
find  Max  lying  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  and  Car- 
lotta  on  her  knees  beside  him. 

"K." 

"Yes?" 

' 'Was  there  anybody  you  cared  about,  —  any 
girl,  —  when  you  left  home?" 

"I  was  not  in  love  with  any  one,  if  that's  what 
you  mean." 

"You  knew  Max  before,  did  n't  you?" 
401 


"Yes.  You  know  that." 

"It  you  knew  things  about  him  that  I  should 
have  known,  why  did  n't  you  tell  me?" 

"  I  could  n't  do  that,  could  I?  Anyhow  — " 

"Yes?" 

"I  thought  everything  would  be  all  right.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  the  mere  fact  of  your  caring  for 
him — "  That  was  shaky  ground;  he  got  off  it 
quickly.  "Schwitter  has  closed  up.  Do  you  want 
to  stop  there?" 

"  Not  to-night,  please." 

They  were  near  the  white  house  now.  Schwitter's 
had  closed  up,  indeed.  The  sign  over  the  entrance 
was  gone.  The  lanterns  had  been  taken  down,  and 
in  the  dusk  they  could  see  Tillie  rocking  her  baby 
on  the  porch.  As  if  to  cover  the  last  traces  of  his  late 
infamy,  Schwitter  himself  was  watering  the  worn 
places  on  the  lawn  with  the  garden  can. 

The  car  went  by.  Above  the  low  hum  of  the  en- 
gine they  could  hear  Tillie' s  voice,  flat  and  unmusi- 
cal, but  filled  with  the  harmonies  of  love  as  she  sang 
to  the  child. 

When  they  had  left  the  house  far  behind,  K.  was 
suddenly  aware  that  Sidney  was  crying.  She  sat 
with  her  head  turned  away,  using  her  handker- 
chief stealthily.  He  drew  the  car  up  beside  the  roadv 
and  in  a  masterful  fashion  turned  her  shoulders 
about  until  she  faced  him. 

"Now,  tell  me  about  it,"  he  said. 

"  It's  just  silliness.  I'm  —  I'm  a  little  bit  lonely." 

402 


"Lonely!" 

"Aunt  Harriet's  in  Paris,  and  with  Joe  gone  and 
everybody  — " 

11  Aunt  Harriet!" 

He  was  properly  dazed,  for  sure.  If  she  had  said 
she  was  lonely  because  the  cherry  bookcase  was  in 
Paris,  he  could  not  have  been  more  bewildered. 
And  Joe! 

"And  with  you  going  away  and  never  coming 
back—" 

"I'll  come  back,  of  course.  How's  this?  I'll 
promise  to  come  back  when  you  graduate,  and  send 
you  flowers." 

"I  think,"  said  Sidney,  "that  I'll  become  an 
army  nurse." 

"  I  hope  you  won't  do  that." 

"You  won't  know,  K.  You'll  be  back  with  your 
old  friends.  You'll  have  forgotten  the  Street  and 
all  of  us." 

"Do  you  really  think  that?" 

"Girls  who  have  been  everywhere,  and  have 
lovely  clothes,  and  who  won't  know  a  T  bandage 
from  a  figure  eight!" 

"There  will  never  be  anybody  in  the  world  like 
you  to  me,  dear." 

His  voice  was  husky. 

"You  are  saying  that  to  comfort  me.'1 

"To  comfort  you!  I  —  who  have  wanted  you  so 
long  that  it  hurts  even  to  think  about  it !  Ever  since 
the  night  I  came  up  the  Street,  and  you  were  sitting 

403 


there  on  the  steps  —  oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,  if  you 
only  cared  a  little!" 

Because  he  was  afraid  that  he  would  get  out  of 
hand  and  take  her  in  his  arms,  —  which  would  be 
idiotic,  since,  of  course,  she  did  not  care  for  him  that 
way,  —  he  gripped  the  steering-wheel.  It  gave  him 
a  curious  appearance  of  making  a  pathetic  appeal  to 
the  wind-shield. 

"I  have  been  trying  to  make  you  say  that  all 
evening!"  said  Sidney.  "I  love  you  so  much  that 
—  K.,  won't  you  take  me  in  your  arms?" 

Take  her  in  his  arms !  He  almost  crushed  her.  He 
held  her  to  him  and  muttered  incoherencies  until 
she  gasped.  It  was  as  if  he  must  make  up  for  long 
arrears  of  hopelessness.  He  held  her  off  a  bit  to  look 
at  her,  as  if  to  be  sure  it  was  she  and  no  changeling, 
and  as  if  he  wanted  her  eyes  to  corroborate  her  lips. 
There  was  no  lack  of  confession  in  her  eyes;  they 
showed  him  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth. 

"It  was  you  always,  K.,"  she  confessed.  "I  just 
did  n't  realize  it.  But  now,  when  you  look  back, 
don't  you  see  it  was?" 

He  looked  back  over  the  months  when  she  had 
seemed  as  unattainable  as  the  stars,  and  he  did  not 
see  it.  He  shook  his  head. 

"I  never  had  even  a  hope." 

"Not  when  I  came  to  you  with  everything?  I 
brought  you  all  my  troubles,  and  you  always 
helped."  " 

Her  eyes  filled.  She  bent  down  and  kissed  one  of 
404 


his  hands.  He  was  so  happy  that  the  foolish  little 
caress  made  his  heart  hammer  in  his  ears. 

"  I  think,  K.,  that  is  how  one  can  always  tell  when 
it  is  the  right  one,  and  will  be  the  right  one  forever 
and  ever.  It  is  the  person —  one  goes  to  in  trouble." 

He  had  no  words  for  that,  only  little  caressing 
touches  of  her  arm,  her  hand.  Perhaps,  without 
knowing  it,  he  was  formulating  a  sort  of  prayer 
that,  since  there  must  be  troubles,  she  would  al- 
ways come  to  him  and  he  would  always  be  able  to 
help  her. 

And  Sidney,  too,  fell  silent.  She  was  recalling 
the  day  she  became  engaged  to  Max,  and  the  lost 
feeling  she  had  had.  She  did  not  feel  the  same  at 
all  now.  She  felt  as  if  she  had  been  wandering, 
and  had  come  home  to  the  arms  that  were  about 
her.  She  would  be  married,  and  take  the  risk  that 
all  women  took,  with  her  eyes  open.  She  would  go 
through  the  valley  of  the  shadow,  as  other  women 
did;  but  K.  would  be  with  her.  Nothing  else  mat- 
tered. Looking  into  his  steady  eyes,  she  knew  that 
she  was  safe.  She  would  never  wither  for  him. 

Where  before  she  had  felt  the  clutch  of  inexorable 
destiny,  the  woman's  fate,  now  she  felt  only  his 
arms  about  her,  her  cheek  on  his  shabby  coat. 

"  I  shall  love  you  all  my  life,"  she  said  shakily. 

His  arms  tightened  about  her. 

The  little  house  was  dark  when  they  got  back  to 
it.  The  Street,  which  had  heard  that  Mr.  Le  Moyne 

405 


approved  of  night  air,  was  raising  its  windows  for 
the  night  and  pinning  cheesecloth  bags  over  its 
curtains  to  keep  them  clean. 

In  the  second-story  front  room  at  Mrs.  McKee's, 
the  barytone  slept  heavily,  and  made  divers  unvocal 
sounds.  He  was  hardening  his  throat,  and  so  slept 
with  a  wet  towel  about  it. 

Down  on  the  doorstep,  Mrs.  McKee  and  Mr. 
Wagner  sat  and  made  love  with  the  aid  of  a  lighted 
match  and  the  pencil-pad. 

The  car  drew  up  at  the  little  house,  and  Sidney  got 
out.  Then  it  drove  away,  for  K.  must  take  it  to  the 
garage  and  walk  back. 

Sidney  sat  on  the  doorstep  and  waited.  How  lovely 
it  all  was !  How  beautiful  life  was !  If  one  did  one's 
best  by  life,  it  did  its  best  too.  How  steady  K.'s  eyes 
were!  She  saw  the  flicker  of  the  match  across  the 
street,  and  knew  what  it  meant.  Once  she  would 
have  thought  that  that  was  funny;  now  it  seemed 
very  touching  to  her. 

Katie  had  heard  the  car,  and  now  she  came  heavily 
along  the  hall. 

"A  woman  left  this  for  Mr.  K.,"  she  said.  "If 
you  think  it's  a  begging  letter,  you'd  better  keep 
it  until  he 's  bought  his  new  suit  to-morrow.  Almost 
any  moment  he's  likely  to  bust  out." 

But  it  was  not  a  begging  letter.  K.  read  it  in  the 
hall,  with  Sidney's  shining  eyes  on  him.  It  began 
abruptly:  — 


406 


"  I  'm  going  to  Africa  with  one  of  my  cousins.  She 
is  a  medical  missionary.  Perhaps  I  can  work  things 
out  there.  It  is  a  bad  station  on  the  West  Coast.  I 
am  not  going  because  I  feel  any  call  to  the  work,  but 
because  I  do  not  know  what  else  to  do. 

''You  were  kind  to  me  the  other  day.  I  believe, 
if  I  had  told  you  then,  you  would  still  have  been 
kind.  I  tried  to  tell  you,  but  I  was  so  terribly  afraid. 

"If  I  caused  death,  I  did  not  mean  to.  You  will 
think  that  no  excuse,  but  it  is  true.  In  the  hospital, 
when  I  changed  the  bottles  on  Miss  Page's  medicine- 
tray,  I  did  not  care  much  what  happened.  But  it 
was  different  with  you. 

"You  dismissed  me,  you  remember.  I  had  been 
careless  about  a  sponge  count.  I  made  up  my  mind 
to  get  back  at  you.  It  seemed  hopeless  —  you  were 
so  secure.  For  two  or  three  days  I  tried  to  think  of 
some  way  to  hurt  you.  I  almost  gave  up.  Then  I 
found  the  way. 

"You  remember  the  packets  of  gauze  sponges  we 
made  and  used  in  the  operating-room?  There  were 
twelve  to  each  package.  When  we  counted  them 
as  we  got  them  out,  we  counted  by  packages.  On 
the  night  before  I  left,  I  went  to  the  operating-room 
'and  added  one  sponge  every  here  and  there.  Out 
of  every  dozen  packets,  perhaps,  I  fixed  one  that 
had  thirteen.  The  next  day  I  went  away. 

"Then  I  was  terrified.  What  if  somebody  died?  I 
had  meant  to  give  you  trouble,  so  you  would  have 
to  do  certain  cases  a  second  time.  I  swear  that  was 

407 


all.  I  was  so  frightened  that  I  went  down  sick  over 
it.  When  I  got  better,  I  heard  you  had  lost  a  case 
and  the  cause  was  being  whispered  about.  I  almost 
died  of  terror. 

"I  tried  to  get  back  into  the  hospital  one  night. 
I  went  up  the  fire-escape,  but  the  windows  were 
locked.  Then  I  left  the  city.  I  could  n't  stand  it. 
I  was  afraid  to  read  a  newspaper. 

"I  am  not  going  to  sign  this  letter.  You  know 
who  it  is  from.  And  I  am  not  going  to  ask  your  for- 
giveness, or  anything  of  that  sort.  I  don't  expect 
it.  But  one  thing  hurt  me  more  than  anything 
else,  the  other  night.  You  said  you  'd  lost  your  faith 
in  yourself.  This  is  to  tell  you  that  you  need  not. 
And  you  said  something  else  —  that  any  one  can 
4  come  back. '  I  wonder ! ' ' 

K.  stood  in  the  hall  of  the  little  house  with  the 
letter  in  his  hand.  Just  beyond  on  the  doorstep  was 
Sidney,  waiting  for  him.  His  arms  were  still  warm 
from  the  touch  of  her.  Beyond  lay  the  Street,  and 
beyond  that  lay  the  world  and  a  man's  work  to  do. 
Work,  and  faith  to  do  it,  a  good  woman's  hand  in 
the  dark,  a  Providence  that  made  things  right  in  the 
end. 

"Are  you  coming,  K.?" 

"  Coming,"  he  said.  And,  when  he  was  beside  her, 
his  long  figure  folded  to  the  short  measure  of  the 
step,  he  stooped  humbly  and  kissed  the  hem  of  her 
soft  white  dress. 

408 


Across  the  Street,  Mr.  Wagner  wrote  something 
in  the  dark  and  then  lighted  a  match. 

"So  K.  is  in  love  with  Sidney  Page,  after  all!"  he 
had  written.  "She  is  a  sweet  girl,  and  he  is  every 
inch  a  man.  But,  to  my  mind,  a  certain  lady  — " 

Mrs.  McKee  flushed  and  blew  out  the  match. 

Late  September  now  on  the  Street,  with  Joe  gone 
and  his  mother  eyeing  the  postman  with  pitiful 
eagerness;  with  Mrs.  Rosenf  eld  moving  heavily  about 
the  setting-up  of  the  new  furniture;  and  with  Johnny 
driving  heavenly  cars,  brake  and  clutch  legs  well 
and  strong.  Late  September,  with  Max  recovering 
and  settling  his  tie  fi*-  any  pretty  nurse  who  hap- 
pened along,  but  listening  eagerly  for  Dr.  Ed's  square 
tread  in  the  hall ;  with  Tillie  rocking  her  baby  on  the 
porch  at  Schwitter's,  and  Carlotta  staring  westward 
over  rolling  seas ;  with  Christine  taking  up  her  bur- 
den and  Grace  laying  hers  down;  with  Joe's  tragic 
young  eyes  growing  quiet  with  the  peace  of  the 
tropics. 

Late  September,  with  the  nurses  on  their  knees 
at  prayers  in  the  little  parlor,  and  the  Head  reading, 
her  voice  weary  with  the  day  and  with  good  works. 

"The  Lord  is  my  shepherd,"  she  reads.  "  I  shall 
not  want."  .  .  .  "Yea,  though  I  walk  through  the 
valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,  I  will  fear  no  evil." 

Sidney,  on  her  knees  in  the  little  parlor,  repeats 
the  words  with  the  others.  K.  has  gone  from  the 
Street,  and  before  long  she  will  join  him.  With  the 

409 


vision  of  his  steady  eyes  before  her,  she  adds  her 
own  prayer  to  the  others  —  that  the  touch  of  his 
arms  about  her  may  not  make  her  forget  the  vow  she 
has  taken,  of  charity  and  its  sister,  service,  of  a  cup 
of  water  to  the  thirsty,  of  open  arms  to  a  tired  child. 


THE  END 


JOHN  FOX,  JR'S. 

STORIES  OF  THE  KENTUCKY  MOUNTAINS 

Kay  be  had  wherever  bocks  are  sold.      Ask  Tor  CrosMt  and  Dtniap's  list 

THE  TRAIL   OF  THE    LONESOME  PINE. 
Illustrated  by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

The  "lonesome  pine"  from  which  the 
story  takes  its  name  was  a  tall  tree  that 
stood  in  solitary  splendor  on  a  mountain 
top.  The  fame  of  the  pine  lured  a  young 
engineer  through  Kentucky  to  catch  the 
trail,  and  when  he  finally  climbed  to  its 
shelter  he  found  not  only  the  pine  but  the 
foot-prints  of  a  girl.  And  the  girl  proved 
to  be  lovely,  piquant,  and  the  trail  of 
these  girlish  foot-prints  led  the  young 
engineer  a  madder  chase  than  "the  trail 
of  the  lonesome  pine." 

THE  LITTLE  SHEPHERD  OF  KINGDOM  .COME 
Illustrated  by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

This  is  a  story  cf  Kentucky,  in  a  settlement  known  as  "King- 
dom Come."  It  is  a  life  rude,  semi-barbarous;  but  natural 
and  honest,  from  which  often  springs  the  flower  of  civilization. 

**  Chad."  the  "little  shepherd"  did  not  know  who  he  was  nor 
whence  he  came — he  had  just  wandered  from  door  to  door  since 
early  childhood,  seeking  shelter  with  kindly  mountaineers  who 
gladly  fathered  and  mothered  this  waif  about  whom  there  was 
such  a  mystery — a  charming  waif,  by  the  way,  who  could  play 
the  banjo  better  that  anyone  else  in  the  mountains. 

A  KNIGHT  OF  THE    CUMBERLAND. 
Illustrated   by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

The  scenes  are  laid  along  the  waters  of  the  Cumberland* 
the  lair  of  moonshiner  and  f  eudsman.  The  knight  is  a  moon- 
shiner's son,  and  the  heroine  a  beautiful  girl  perversely  chris- 
tened "The  Blight."  Two  impetuous  young  Southerners'  fai! 
under  the  spell  of  "The  Blight's  "  charms  and  she  learns  what 
a  large  part  jealousy  and  pistols  have  in  the  love  making  of  the 
mountaineers. 

Included  in  this  volume  is  "Hell  fer-Sartain"  and  other 
stores,  some  of  Mr.  Fox's  most  entertaining  Cunberland  valley 
narratives. 

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GROSSET  &    DUNLAP'S 

DRAMATIZED  NOVELS 

Original,  sincere  and  courageous — often  amusing — the 
kind  that  are  making  theatrical  history. 

MADAME  X.     By  Alexandra  Bisson  and  J.  W.  McCon 
aughy.      Illustrated    with    scenes   from    the    play. 
A  beautiful  Parisienne  became  an  outcast  because  her  hus- 
band would  not  forgive  an  error  of  her  youth.    Her  love  for 
her  son  is  the  great  final  influence  in  her  career.    A  tremen- 
dous dramatic  success. 

THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH.    By  Robert  Hichens. 

An  unconventional  English  woman  and  an  inscrutable 
stranger  meet  and  love  in  an  oasis  of  the  Sahara.  Staged 
this  season  with  magnificent  cast  and  gorgeous  properties. 

THE  PRINCE  OF  INDIA.    By  Lew.  Wallace. 

A  glowing  romance  of  the  Byzantine  Empire,  presenting 
with  extraordinary  power  the  siege  of  Constantinople,  and 
lighting  its  tragedy  with  the  warm  underglow  of  an  Oriental 
romance.  As  a  play  it  is  a  great  dramatic  spectacle. 

TESS  OF   THE    STORM    COUNTRY.     By  Grace 
Miller  White.    Illust  by  Howard  Chandler  Christy. 
A  girl  from  the  dregs  of  society,  loves  a  young  Cornell  Uni- 
versity student,  and  it  works  startling  changes  in  her  life  and 
ihe  lives  of  those  about  her.    The  dramatic  version  is  one  of 
the  sensations  of  the  season. 

FOUNG    WALLINGFORD.     By  George    Randolph 

Chester.     Illust.  by  F.  R.  Gruger  and  Henry  Raleigh. 

A  series  of  clever  swindles  conducted  by  a  cheerful  young 

man,  each  of  which  is  just  on  the  safe  side  of  a  State's  prison 

offence.    As  « Get-Rich-Quick  Wallingford,"  it  is  probably 

the  most  amusing  expose  of  money  manipulation  ever  seen 

on  the  stage. 

THE  INTRUSION  OF  JIMMY.    By  P.  GL  Wode* 

house.     Illustrations  by  Will  Grefe. 
Social  and  club  life  in  London  and  New  York,  an  amateur 
burglary  adventure  and  a  love  story.    Dramatized  under  the 
title  of  "A  Gentleman  of  Leisure,"  it  furnishes  hours  of 
laughter  to  the  play-goers. 

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GROSSET8:  DUNLAP'S 

DRAMATIZED    NOVELS 

THE   KIND   THAT   ARE   MAKING   THEATRICAL   HISTORY 
>     Hay  be  had  whsrevor  books  are  sold.        Ask  far  Qrassat  ft  Dunlap'a  Ifat 

WITHIN  THE  LAW.     By  Bayard  Veffler  &  Marvin  Dana. 
Illustrated  by  Wm.  Charles  Cooke. 

This  is  a  novelization  of  the  immensely  successful  play  which  ran 
for  two  years  in  New  York  and  Chicago. 

The  plot  of  this  powerful  novel  is  of  a  young  woman's  revenge 
directed  against  her  employer  who  allowed  her  to  be  sent  to  prisou 
for  three  years  on  a  charge  of  theft,  of  which  she  was  innocent. 

WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  MARY.     By  Robert  Carlto*  Brown, 
Illustrated  with  scenes  from  the  play. 

This  is  a  narrative  of  a  young  and  innocent  country  girl  who  is 
suddenly  thrown  into  the  very  heart  of  New  York,  "the  land  of  her 
dreams,"  where  she  is  exposed  to  all  sorts  of  temptations  and  dangers. 

The  story  of  Mary  is  being  toid  in  moving  pictures  and  played  ia 
theatres  all  over  the  world. 

THE  RETURN  OP  PETER  GRIMM.      By  David  Belasco. 
Illustrated  by  John  Rae, 

»rhis  is  a  novelization  of  the  popular  play  in  which  David  Wai^ 
field,  as  Old  Peter  Grimm,  scored  such  a  remarkable  success. 

The  story  is  spectacular   and  extremely  pathetic  but  withal, 
powerful,  bom  as  a  book  and  as  a  play. 
THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH.    By  Robert  Hichens.^ 

This  novel  is  an  intense,  glowing  epic  of  the  great  desert,  sunlit 
barbaric,  with  its  marvelous  atmosphere  of  vastness  and  loneliness. 

It  is  a  book  of  rapturous  beauty,  vivid  in  word  painting.    The  plajf 
has  been  staged  with  magnificent  cast  and  gorgeous  properties. 
BEN    HUR.    A  Tale  of  the  Christ.    By  General  Lew  Wallace. 

The  whole  world  has  placed  this  famous  Religious-Historical  Ro- 
mance on  a  height  of  pre-eminence  which  no  other  novel  of  its  tim* 
has  reached.  The  clashing  of  rivalry  and  the  deepest  human  passions, 
the  perfect  reproduction  of  brilliant  Roman  life,  and  the  tense,  fierce 
atmosphere  of  the  arena  have  kept  their  deep  fascination.  A  tre- 
mendous dramatic  success. 

BOUGHT  Aft  D  PAID  FOR.     By  George  Broadhurst  an4  Arthur 
llornblow.          Illustrated  with  scenes  from  the  play. 

u  A  stupendous  arraignment  of  modern  marriage  which  has  created 

an  interest  on  the  stage  that  is  almost  unparalleled.  The  scenes  are  laid 

in  New  York,  and  deal  with  conditions  among  both  the  rich  and  poor. 

The  interest  of  the  story  turns  on  the  day-by-day  ^veloonients 

which  show  the  young  wife  the  price  she  has  paid. 

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STORIES   OF    RARE    CHARM    BY 

GENE  STRATTON-PORTER 

May  t>«  had  wherever  books  are  sold.      Ask  tor  Grosset  and  Dunlap's  list. 

""THE  HARVESTER 

Illustrated  by  W.  L.  Jacobs 

"The  Harvester,"  David  Langston,  Is 
Q.  man  of  the  woods  and  fields,  who  draws 
his  living  from  the  prodigal  hand  of  Mother 
Nature  herself.  If  the  book  had  nothing  in 
it  but  the  splendid  figure  of  this  man,  with 
his  sure  grip  on  life,  his  superb  optimism, 
and  his  almost  miraculous  knowledge  of 
nature  secrets,  it  would  be  notable.  But 
when  the  Girl  comes  to  his  "Medicine 
Woods,"  and  the  Harvester's  whole  sound, 
healthy,  large  outdoor  being  realizes  that 
this  is  the  highest  point  of  life  which  has 
come  to  him  —  there  begins  a  romance, 
troubled  and  interrupted,  yet  of  the  rarest  idyllic  quality. 

FRECKLES.       Decorations  by  E.  Stetson  Crawford 

Freckles  is  a  "nameless  waif  when  the  tale  opens,  but  the  *ay  i& 
which  he  takes  hold  of  life;  the  nature  friendships  he  forms  in  the 
great  Limberlost  Swamp;  the  manner  in  which  everyone  who  meets 
him  succumbs  to  the  charm  cf  his  engaging  personality;  and  his  love* 
story  with  "The  Angel"  are  full  of  real  sentiment. 

A  GIRL  OF  THE  LIMBERLOST. 
Illustrated  by  Wladyslaw  T.  Brenda/ 

The  story  of  a  girl  of  the  Michigan  voods;  a  buoyant,  lovable 
type  of  the  self-reliant  American.  Her  philosophy  is  one  of  love  and 
kindness  towards  all  things;  her  hope  is  never  dimmed.  And  by  the 
sheer  beauty  of  her  soul,  and  the  purity  of  her  vision,  she  wins  from 
barren  and  unpromising  surroundings  those  rewards  of  high  courage. 

It  is  an  inspiring  story  of  a  life  worth  while  and  the  rich  beauties 
of  tae  out-of-doors  are  strewn  through  ail  its  pages. 

AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  RAINBOW. 


Illustrations  in  colors  by  Oliver  Kemp. 
Ralph  Fletcher  Seymour. 


Design  and  decorations  by 


The  scene  of  this  charming,  idyllic  Icye  story  is  laid  in  Centra} 
Indiana.  The  story  is  one  of  devoted  friendship,  and  tender  self- 
sacrificing  love;  the  friendship  that  gives  freely  without  return,  and 
the  love  that  seeks  first  the  happiness  of  the  object.  The  novel  is 
brimful  of  the  most  beautiful  word  painting  of  nature,  and  its  pathos 
and  tender  sentiment  will  endear  it  to  all. 

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